


It's a Sunday Sleepover

by EtoileGarden



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: CW, Canonical Child Abuse, Canonical Suicide Attempt, Communication, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Miscommunication, Physical hurt/comfort, Pre-The Raven Boys, The Raven Cycle - Freeform, light on comfort, raven boys - Freeform, throwing up, tw
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 20:22:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,033
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12395532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EtoileGarden/pseuds/EtoileGarden
Summary: Pre-The Raven Boys.“I’d say text, if you need anything,” Ronan says, now there’s deprecation, and amusement, “but you don’t have a fucking phone and I wouldn’t read your texts anyway. So, if you need anything, suffer.”





	It's a Sunday Sleepover

**Author's Note:**

> Fair warning that I've fucked around with timelines a little to suit my own narrative needs - ie. The inclusion of Kavinsky. (and also I never edit anything)
> 
> Please heed the warnings in the notes - this fic deals heavily with suicidal idealization, child abuse, and an abundance of hurt. Look after yourselves.

Sunday nights were, more or less, peaceful in the Parrish household.

Adam would work at the trailer park in the morning, and then for his father in the afternoon. Working for his father wasn’t exactly peaceful but Sundays were Robert's day off - not for a particularly religious reason - it just coincided with the weekly races down at the pub. Adam tended to bring his cheques home on Saturdays, which meant that on Sundays, Robert had spare cash to attempt to turn into less sparse spare cash in the betting pools. Whatever the outcome of the bets, he tended to come home drunk more genially than volatile, which meant that both Adam and his mother were less tense. This in turn meant that the day would pass easier, helped along with the recent cheque, dinner would be calmer, and by the time his father came home, Adam would already be in his room finishing his homework. 

There were always days that didn’t quite fit this comfortable mould, of course, days where the bets were placed too high and the fall was too hard, or the cheques weren’t enough so the bruises were darker. This was not one of those days, which meant it wasn’t one of those nights that left Adam furiously resisting the urge to check, and check, and check if his face was bruising noticeably, or if his shirt would cover his arm just right. Instead, he was in bed, more than half way to sleep, staring unfocused at his window, open just a crack to let the cool evening air in. It took him far too long to realise that at some point during his fuzzy stare, the window had begun to stare back. 

“Fuck,” he hissed, the f hard and sharp on his tongue before he reminded himself to be quiet, the rest of the word just a hush. He sat up on his bed, glared at the smirking face behind the glass. 

“I hope I didn’t make you piss the bed, Parrish,” Ronan drawled. Despite his general disposition to ignore the comfort of others, he kept his voice low so his voice was really more of a hum. Adam’s parents wouldn’t hear it unless they were listening for it, and they had no reason to be listening for it.   
Robert was definitely asleep, Adam could hear the snoring, solid and constant, oddly comforting. He had taken Alice to bed with him as well, she might be asleep, might not, but probably wouldn’t hear anything over her husband. 

Adam glared harder. He pushed the covers away from his legs and crossed the room to his window in one easy step.   
“What the fuck are you doing here Lynch?” he whispered harshly.  
Ronan gripped the edge of the window and opened it further so he could duck down and step in under it, his head poking into Adam’s small room, his body bent awkwardly in the dark outside.   
“Couldn’t sleep,” he grinned, “wanna sneak out?”   
Adam always wanted to sneak out. No. He didn’t want to sneak out, he always wanted to leave. He wanted people to see him leaving. Still, sneaking out was still leaving, and it was always tempting. Not usually worth it though.   
“No,” he said shortly. He toned his glare down into a frown though. “I have an early shift before class, I need to sleep.”   
“Loser,” Ronan said, voice only soft because he was keeping the volume down, “I’m bored.”   
“Not my problem,” Adam replied, “go home and bug Gansey and Noah.”  
Ronan frowned now as well, leaned forwards even more so he could rest his face against the window frame. It wasn’t exactly a spacious window frame, as thin as the window, the metal dug into his cheek.   
“They’re asleep,” he said, “Gansey’s having one of those nights where he actually sleeps.”   
“Funny,” Adam mumbled, “I’d like to be having one of those nights.” He lifted a hand and poked Ronan’s forehead, “You should at least try to sleep. It’s late. Latin first period tomorrow.”   
Ronan didn’t move, but he did roll his eyes. Adam poked him again, just under his cheek bone, hard enough that he could feel teeth through the skin.   
“Can I come in?”   
“What?”   
“Can I come in. To your room. Through your window.” His first question had been asked softly, hesitant, his second wasn’t a question, just a selection of words laced in something like sarcasm.   
“I thought I just said that we need to sleep,” Adam pointed out.   
“I’m not saying you can’t sleep,” Ronan pointed back.  
“Ok right, so you’re suggesting you just chill on my floor and watch me sleep? That’s not creepy at all, man.”   
Ronan was rolling his eyes.   
“No, shit face, I was suggesting I sleep over. As in, we both sleep. No creepy watching.”   
“Ronan Lynch wants a sleepover?” Adam said, his voice maybe a little bit too loud in his amusement, “Are we going to share secrets as well?”   
“Depends what you wanna know,” Ronan gritted back, “can I?”   
“Can you what?”   
“Come in, fuck head.”   
Adam shrugged, stepped backwards away from the window. “If you break the window or frame, you’re paying.”   
“Whatever.”  
“And you have to leave before my shift.”   
“Whatever.”  
“It’s at 5. You have to leave at 4.30.”  
“I fucking said whatever, Parrish,” Ronan hissed. He’d pushed the window open wider, and was bracing himself gingerly against the frame.  
“We can’t wake my parents,” Adam added, watched as Ronan rolled his eyes again.   
“I’m not an idiot, idiot.”   
“Could've fooled me,” Adam said. He didn’t need to step back again to sit down on his bed. He pushed himself back across the mattress, shuffling his feet under the blanket, and watched Ronan clamber, extremely awkwardly, through the window. It was almost impressive, if only because he didn’t break anything, and managed the entire event with little to no noise. It wasn’t impressive, because he looked as graceful as a drunk bumblebee.   
Once he was in however, he straightened up to his full height, and held his arms out like he had just completed a gymnastics routine. Adam withheld his laugh.  
“2 out of 10,” he offered, “you really fumbled the landing.”   
“Oh fuck you, Parrish,” Ronan snorted, turning to pull the window mostly shut, “like you could do better.”   
While it was true that he usually snuck out through the front door because it was easier physically, he had enough experience with his window to know he could do better.   
“I’ll show you how it’s done sometime,” he replied lazily, and then, “wait, are you planning on getting into bed with me?”   
“Are you scared of cooties?” Ronan snarked back, “You want me on the floor?”   
“I don’t really care.”  
“Well then, I promise not to drool on you,” Ronan said, and sat down on the edge of the bed to take his shoes off.   
Adam shifted onto his side, pressing his back against the wall to give Ronan more space, and poked Ronan’s back. “Take your jeans off, they’re muddy.”   
“Like your sheets are clean.” He looked as if he were about to throw his shoes across the room, hand raised to release them, then paused mid-air, and lowered his arm carefully to place them on the floor before standing up again to undo his jeans. He shucked them quickly, leaving him in socks, undies and his singlet, as well as his leather jacket. He dropped his jeans carelessly onto his shoes, and then climbed back onto the bed, shoving his legs under the blanket and shifting down the mattress until he could press his cold feet against Adam’s calves.   
“Fuck you,” Adam hissed, pinned between the cold wall and chillier feet, then he rolled his eyes, “and take your jacket off, you goddamn idiot.”   
“Oh,” Ronan mumbled, looking almost surprised to realise he hadn’t. He sat back up, the movement yanking the blankets, then pulled off the jacket and dropped it onto the trousers, and lay back down. Adam pulled at the blankets, grumbling under his breath.   
They lay like that a moment, Ronan on his back, staring at the ceiling, Adam on his side, frowning at Ronan’s profile, and then Adam shifted jerkily to roll over, and then onto his other side, presenting his back to Ronan. “Goodnight then,” he mumbled to the wall after a lengthy pause.   
Ronan huffed from behind him. “No secrets then?” he teased.   
“Not from me, I’m too tired.”   
“Pity, I was almost feeling forthcoming.”   
“God, Lynch,” Adam groaned, “is there something you want to tell me?”   
“Nah,” Ronan said, “goodnight loser.”   
“Fucker.”   
“Shit head.”   
“I’ll kick you out of my bed.”   
“Shh, go to sleep Parrish, I’m tired.”   
“...dick.”   
“I’ll tell Gansey.”   
“Sleep.” 

 

Morning arrives a lot quicker than Ronan had expected. Especially because he had only planned to rest his eyes for a moment, not to actually go to sleep. Especially because the faint beeping coming from Adam’s wristwatch somewhere under the blankets means it’s 4.30, and 4.30 is not a good time for anything. 

There are several issues with the fact that his eye resting turned into full body resting. Firstly, he wasn’t known for being a peaceful sleeper. In fact, the few times he’d shared a bed with Gansey and actually slept, he’d been informed repeatedly throughout the night that he was a kicker. Secondly, when he had been sleeping lately, his dreams were less dreams and more first-person horror video games, and he didn’t relish the idea of waking anyone up with not only the apparently normal thrashing and kicking, but possibly also sleep talking. Gansey had, more than once, woken him up, after Ronan had unconsciously woken him up, to tell him he’d been talking, sometimes yelling, occasionally crying. Uncomfortable. Thirdly, the biggest problem with his being in a first-person horror, was his knack for accidentally bringing a physical horror out with him, and there was absolutely no space in this narrow bed, in this narrow bedroom, in this narrow house, for the horrors in Ronan’s head.   
Fourthly, and possibly worst of all, his most tenacious sleeping habit, something else also pointed out by Gansey, but in much fonder tones, was that after he’d stopped kicking, he attached himself to anyone or anything in the bed. 

He’d broken his promise. He had definitely drooled on Adam’s shoulder. His shirt was damp and warm under his cheek. His left arm was slung low over Adam’s stomach, hand hooked tightly over his hip, and his leg was bent over Adam’s knees. His right hand was in a fist under the pillow, something biting into his palm and his fingers.   
“I hadn’t taken you for a cuddler, Lynch.” Adam’s voice was sardonic, very quiet, and a surprise. Ronan jerked, cursing lowly. He should have figured that Adam-always-on-time-Parrish would wake up with his alarm not matter how muffled it was.   
“Shows how much you know about me,” Ronan grunted back, shoved himself away from the warmth, and sat up. He wanted to see what he had caught in his hand, couldn’t risk it.   
“Mhm,” Adam didn’t seem phased. He sat as well, stretched, joints popping loudly, “You have to go,” he said, no preamble, and climbed out over Ronan.   
“Are you saying I’m just a one night stand to you, Parrish?” Ronan gasped, “I’m hurt.”   
Adam was already at his dresser - really something that looked like a wire fruit and veg rack - and was peeling his sleep shirt off.   
“I’m saying you have to go before anyone else is awake to see you climb out my window,” he said, tugging another shirt on before turning back to Ronan still in his bed, and tossing the discarded shirt in his general direction. “Get up.”   
“God,” Ronan groaned, but got up, or at least swung his legs over the side of the bed and started to shimmy himself back into his jeans. Adam was pulling his own jeans on, and then joining him on he edge of the bed to put on his sneakers.   
“No shower?” Ronan asked, “Filthy.”   
“I’ll shower at Boyd’s after my shift,” Adam replied blandly, “No point in washing until after I’m covered in grease.” 

By the time Ronan had shoved himself into his shoes, palmed the object in his fist into his pocket, struggled into his jacket, Adam had his school bag over his shoulder and an impatient expression on his face.   
“I’ll give you a ride,” Ronan said, “I’m parked at the end of the street. I can meet you there.”   
“You don’t need to do that,” Adam said lightly, “I’ll just bike.”   
“Bike to the end of the street, then I’ll take you the rest of the way. As payment for letting me crash here.”   
Adam paused, as if he had to think about it carefully. Calculate how much it might have cost him to have Ronan stay over against how much it would cost Ronan to drive him.   
“Fuck, Parrish,” Ronan hissed, “I’ll be at my car if you decide to risk your pride.”   
He stepped over to the window and pushed it open, peering out into the gloom of the day still dawning, checking for witnesses, and then climbed out. Just as graceful as the previous night. 

He was ridiculously pleased when he arrived back at his BMW, half expected it to be fucked up after staying the night outside the trailer park. No one living here appreciated his car being here. He pulled his dream object out of his pocket as soon as he’d shut the door behind him, and then snorted. As far as he could tell, it was an exact replica of Adam’s watch. He couldn’t remember if he had dreamed last night, but he thought that this was similar to dreaming about an alarm going off in your dreams only to wake up a moment later and realise it was real, except of course both his dreams and reality were, mostly, real. At least this watch wasn’t beeping at him. Adam knocked on the passenger side window and Ronan immediately dropped the watch. He scowled at Adam from across the seats, and bent down to pick it up, shove it back into his pocket before leaning over to unlock the door.   
“You took your time,” Adam accused, and then, “open the boot so I can shove my bike in.” 

The drive to Boyd’s is quiet, neither of them really morning people. Ronan leans over to switch on his music and Adam immediately slaps his hand away from the dials.   
“Too early,” he grunts, and Ronan only huffs in reply, doesn’t bother fighting it.   
They don’t talk until Ronan parks outside, and Adam pauses with his hand on his seat belt buckle.   
“Am I allowed to tease you for drooling on me?”   
“Fuck right off Parrish.”  
He glares at Adam while he climbs out of the car and retrieves his bike, and keeps glaring until he’s disappeared into the building and Ronan is left alone in the grey morning. He pulls Adam’s watch/not-Adam’s watch out of his pocket again and checks the time, then snorts. It doesn’t even tell the fucking time. The watch face is devoid of numbers, and the two small clock hands are twitching in their casing. He watches them, amused, for a moment. Their short jerky movements aren’t even in sync with each other. He pockets it again, drives to Monmouth. 

 

When Adam bikes by, Ronan leans out of the Camaro’s passenger door window and yells at him.  
“Oi, Parrish,” he calls, waits until Adam puts his foot down and swivels in the seat to look at him. “Come over here and tell Gansey he’s wrong,” Ronan demands, ignores Gansey huffing beside him in favour of grinning, shark like, at Adam approaching, on foot now, wheeling his bike alongside him. He looks wary but amused when he pokes his head in through Ronan’s window and then leans over him to hold his fist out to Gansey. Gansey bumps it with his own.   
“Morning Gansey,” Adam says, “what are you apparently wrong about?”   
“Morning,” Gansey replies, “nothing. Ronan’s just being difficult.”   
Ronan sighs exaggeratedly loudly, “Why the fuck would I tell you that if it was so easily proven wrong?”   
Gansey opened his mouth to reply, probably with some previous experience of Ronan doing just that, but Adam got in first.   
“Fill me in on the context here,” he said, “seeing as Lynch seems so sure I’m going to agree with him.”   
Now Gansey sighs, “I asked him where he went last night, I know he disappeared somewhere, but he won’t tell me. He just says he stayed at yours, which we all know isn’t true.”   
Adam raised his eyebrows, turned to stare at Ronan for a half second, Ronan shrugged in reply.   
“It’s true,” Adam said, turning back to look at Gansey, “he arrived at about midnight and climbed in my fucking window. I never would have guessed he was a cuddler.”   
It takes Gansey just under a minute to fully recalibrate. Then he turns to Ronan, who was a shade of red probably closest to scarlet, changed his mind, and turned to Adam instead.   
“He has always been a cuddler,” he said, no, drawled, “you should have seen his teddy bear collection. Sometimes, I swear, it’s like I wake up and I’m certain there’s been a break out at the local aquarium because their octopus is in my bed.”  
“Fuck you, dick,” Ronan grumbled, his face still embarrassingly loud, as he unlatches his door and shoves it at the side of Adam’s bike, not quite hard enough to push him off balance. ”Shift or be shifted,” he grunted, and Adam glared, but pulled his bike and himself away enough for Ronan to pull himself out of the car.   
“Oh come on, Ronan,” Gansey called after him, “I didn’t say anything about how you used to refuse to go to sleep if your hair wasn’t stroked.”   
Up to this point, it was clear to both Adam and Gansey that Ronan was somewhat pissed off, yes, but only at a very surface level, he certainly wasn’t upset. Now, however, he grew so still in the alcove between car and door that Adam, who was closer, was reasonably certain he had stopped breathing as well while his face slowly drained from red to white, and his already thin lips grew thinner as he bit down on the insides of his mouth. Inside the car, Gansey was performing an approximation of Ronan’s reaction, his face paling as well, biting down on his lips, but while Gansey’s face drew itself up in horror, Ronan’s was flattening out into careful blankness.   
“Ronan,” he said, “Ronan, I’m so-”  
“Fuck you,” Ronan said again, barely louder than an inhale, “Fuck you, Gansey.”   
He slammed the door, and moved so quickly away and out of his bubble of treacle thick stillness, that by the time he had disappeared beyond the school walls, Gansey was still only halfway through pushing open his door.   
He and Adam stared at each other over the roof of the care, Gansey’s face the picture of guilt, and Adam’s caught somewhere around confusion.   
“Do you want me to go after him?” Adam asked, ‘There’s still a bit of time before first period.”   
“No,” Gansey replied immediately. He shut his door slowly, locked the car absentmindedly. “No, this is my fault, I shouldn’t have - I didn’t think. I’ll go after him. I’ll see you later, yeah?”   
“Yeah,” Adam nodded, stiff, watched as Gansey nodded back , just as stiff, and then turned on heel and all but trotted away. 

Ronan often used his greater height to gain an advantage over Gansey, usually for things like surprise under the table kick attacks. On this occasion it was good for a speedy getaway. Gansey had absolutely no visual clues to where he might be. One thing he often prided himself on was his ability to find things. Loose threads of history, clues, artefacts. Ronan was unlikely to stay nice and still for a few hundred years for Gansey to find him, but he was extremely likely to repeat his own history. 

This was how it tended to pan out.

-Ronan is fine, or, Ronan is pretending to be fine.  
-Someone, usually Declan, today Gansey, says something just a little too shitty. A little too close.  
-There is no alarm bell, no warning beep, no foreshock. But also no eruption. Not quite.   
-Ronan swears. Ronan leaves.   
-From past experience, Gansey has discovered that this is because if someone, Declan, stops him from leaving at this point, one of two things will happen;   
-one, Ronan will hit someone (Declan) or   
-two, Ronan will cry.   
-Ronan leaves.   
-Ronan wants;  
\- What he can’t have  
\- What he once had  
\- What he shouldn’t have  
\- What he doesn’t believe he should have

Ronan didn’t drive here today, he had come in the Pig with Gansey. This ruled out, or at least for a short while, most of the options. It’s a difficult thing, trying to decide where to look first, it always is, because if you choose the wrong one, by the time you’ve discovered it’s the wrong one, Ronan’s usually got himself what he thinks he wants. 

He turns right at the school gates, manages to ignore his stomach churning with guilt and worry for all of seven steps, then gives in and begins jogging. He’s only two blocks away from school when he realises he was wrong about where Ronan would be. This realisation isn’t so much a thunderbolt, as it is an earthquake.   
Or, it isn’t so much an earthquake as it is Gansey tripping up over Ronan’s feet, and only just catching himself from falling face forwards into the pavement. Ronan, sitting on the grassy curb, just watches, blank.  
The next realisation does feel like a thunderbolt, and involves less near-encounters with concrete. Ronan is sitting in the middle of the street, is not running away, is waiting for Gansey because he knows Gansey is coming to find him to apologise.   
He sits down in the grass next to Ronan, close enough that their knees knock painfully together.  
“I’m sorry,” he says. He isn’t expecting a reaction, and does not get one. He shuffles closer so their thighs are pressed together, ducks his head, tries again. “Ronan,” he says, then pours everything out, “I shouldn’t have said that. I am so, so sorry. It wasn’t meant to be malicious, but it wasn’t thought out at all.”  
Ronan nods. More of a response than Gansey had been expecting at this point.   
“I- I’m not trying to persuade you out of being angry at me,” he continued, “just, I don’t want you to be alone.”   
“You could have sent Parrish,” Ronan said. His voice was hard, but hard like lead sharpened to a point too fragile. “You could have called Declan, put him on babysitting duty.”  
“I don’t want you to be alone,” Gansey says again, “and I didn’t want you to have to explain yourself.”   
“Parrish doesn’t ask for answers,” Ronan replied, and Gansey shrugged.   
“I don’t know then, Ronan. I wanted to be with you,” he said.   
“You could have said that in the first place.”  
“I should have,” Gansey agreed, “where do you want to go?”   
“The Barns.”   
“Ronan.”   
“You asked,”   
“Come get the Pig with me.”  
“Are we going to the Barns?”  
“No. We could go near the Barns?”  
“Can I drive?”   
“Ronan.”   
“It would be a better apology than the one you just gave.”   
“I love you as if you were my own blood, Ronan, but God no.” 

They don’t bother with conversation on the way back to the Pig. It’s not necessary once they’re driving either, Ronan plugs in his phone and pours music into the car. Gansey makes his customary disgruntled noises at the genre, but otherwise stays quiet. The drive from Aglionby to the Barns is achingly familiar for the both of them, surrounded by music, it was almost too easy to pretend that they could drive all the way. Instead, Gansey pulls onto the side of the road near the beginning of the driveway, turns the car off, which in turn cuts the music off.   
Ronan glares at him, says, “Are we really gonna just sit at the bottom of the drive?”   
“No,” Gansey’s shaking his head, “I thought we could walk up a way, to that shed about halfway up.”   
Ronan allows himself to look shocked for just a moment, and then shakes his head, “Right, but we can’t leave the Pig at the bottom of the drive, I bet Declan has spies who would absolutely notice a bright orange car parked just below the boundary. I’m not being written out of the will because of your awful taste in cars.”   
“No need to be insulting,” Gansey mumbled, turned the car back on.

It was raining by the time they reached the shed, the both of them damp, but not soaked.   
“God, I did not think this through,” Gansey huffed, turning the door handle futilely, “why didn’t you tell me it’d be locked?”  
“Because I have the key. Move,” Ronan said, pushing past Gansey as he brandished said key, “I come here sometimes.” 

 

Gansey hadn’t turned up to any classes that Monday, neither had Ronan, but the following morning as Gansey slid into his seat next to Adam he shot him a reassuring smile.   
“You guys are ok then?”  
“Yeah,” Gansey had nodded, “It’s all good.”   
Adam, as Ronan had predicted, hadn’t asked questions, had nodded as well, and didn’t mention it when he saw Ronan in their next class, or during lunch, after school, or any of the days following. It didn’t mean he had forgotten it happened, or hadn’t cared. He just saw no good reason for asking. Ronan didn’t seem to want to talk about it, had never been content to be prodded about his emotions. Anyway, Adam couldn’t exactly ask Ronan what was wrong when he wouldn’t let anyone ask him that. They continued as normal. Or anyway, as normal as can be expected when around Ronan and Gansey. 

 

When Ronan turned up at the window of his small bedroom again, the week had ended, and already begun again, though only by a few minutes, and Adam was still awake. He had his bedside lamp on, a shirt draped over it to dull the light so it was just bright enough to read by, but not enough to creep out the edges of his door and alert his parents that he was still up past midnight. For a moment, Adam considered pretending he hadn’t noticed Ronan outside his window. It was closed tonight so Ronan couldn’t just let himself in, and Adam was reasonably certain he wouldn’t risk knocking and Adam’s parents hearing. He was tired, wanted to finish the last page of his homework as quickly as possible and go to sleep. He got up and opened the window.   
“Shouldn’t be awake,” Ronan breathed mockingly as he ducked his head under the window, “school night.”   
“Fuck off,” Adam replied, venom diluted considerably due to lack of volume. He could hear his father snoring, though he’d only arrived home recently. “You coming in?” he asked, then stepped away from the window again to sit back on his bed, kept his voice low, “I’m not sleeping til I’m finished this though.”  
Through the dim room Adam could still make out Ronan rolling his eyes. He didn’t bother with an answer, just pushed the window wide again, and slowly hoisted himself up.   
“I’m working again in the morning,” Adam continued, turning his attention back to his books, “so you’ll have to leave early again.”  
Ronan grunted his assent, dropped almost soundlessly into the room, closed the window behind him, and then flopped languidly onto the bed across Adam’s books.  
“Asshole,” Adam hissed, poked him hard in the ribs until he rolled and sat up.   
“I can’t believe you’ve not finished that already,” Ronan mumbled, fiddling with the edges of paper, “you never leave homework this late.”   
“Some of us,” Adam directed this to his papers again as he flattened them back out, “have to work over the weekend. Anyway,” he raised his face to shoot a glare at Ronan, “you’ve not done this homework have you?”   
“Nah,” Ronan replied easily. He shuffled himself round on Adam’s bed, toed his shoes off, and leaned back against the wall, crumpling himself up to fit on the narrow mattress.   
Adam ignored him, slowly wrote out as answer. Ronan was tugging at a loose thread on his jeans.   
“You gonna drool on me again tonight?” Adam asked, voice light, he wrote another sentence down quickly.   
“Probably,” Ronan shrugged, “you gonna sleep anytime tonight?” he tugged at Adam’s books instead of his jeans, “Or are you planning on studying all night?”   
“Patience is a virtue, Lynch,” Adam mumbled, “I’m almost finished.”  
“I have never pretended to be virtuous,” Ronan said, almost smugly, “just ask Gansey.”   
“Mh,” Adam replied, turned the page, “did you tell Gansey where you were going tonight?”   
Ronan didn’t reply. Adam wrote out another answer, slow, careful. Ronan still didn’t reply. Adam considered saying something else, checked his previous answer.   
“No,” Ronan said, “he’s asleep.”   
Adam exhaled, his answer was right, he moved to the next question. “He was asleep last time too,” he pointed out, “but he still noticed you were gone.”   
Ronan snorted, a little too loud, “Not my fault he’s a shit sleeper,” he said, “didn’t think you were the nagging type, Parrish.”  
Adam stared at him, eyebrows raised, “I’m not nagging,” he said, “I’m just pointing things out.”  
“Whatever.” Ronan went back to tugging the thread on his jeans, Adam went back to the last question.   
“You didn’t point anything out about Monday,” Ronan said to his lap. Adam wrote half a word.   
“Didn’t think I needed to,” he said, wrote the other half of the word.   
“It’s not true,” Ronan said.   
“What isn’t?” Adam asked, didn’t look up from the paper, didn’t write.   
“What Gansey said,” Ronan mumbled, “it was just something Declan used to say, because-” he broke off to shrug.   
“You don’t have to tell me,” Adam said, tried to concentrate on the book in front of him, “if you don’t want to.”   
Ronan ignored him.   
“Because I used to have longer hair, yeah?” Ronan continued, “When I was a kid I’d fall asleep whenever someone stroked it. It’s stupid. Declan thought it was funny, so did mum, so it was like, a thing, you know, before I went to bed she’d just-” he shrugged again. Adam put down his pen. “Pat my hair or whatever. Or dad did. Or Declan did. Gansey got in on it too. It was just a joke, but like, I shaved all my hair off for a reason.”  
“Ronan,” Adam began.  
“Nah,” Ronan shook his head, “don’t. I’m just telling you because I know you won’t ask, but you wanna know.” He spoke firmly, though still hushed, as if he had been watching Adam very carefully keep his mouth shut all week, as if he knew Adam wouldn’t ask if he thought Ronan might ask back.   
“Ok.” Adam said, “Well,” he picked up his pen again, “thanks for telling me.”   
“Whatever,” Ronan said. 

 

By the time Adam had finished his homework, it was utterly quiet and Ronan had shucked off his jacket, peeled off his jeans, and was standing, half dressed at Adam’s door examining his year planner.   
“You’re such a fucking nerd,” he breathed as Adam stood up to put his books away, “you have all the scheduled tests on here as well as some supposed pop quizzes. How many teachers have you sucked off, Parrish?”   
Adam rolled his eyes, “Obviously not enough seeing as I still have to share classes with you,” he retorted. Ronan opened his mouth to retaliate further, a smirk snaking over his face, but Adam, realising just how quiet it was, stepped forwards swiftly and covered his mouth with one hand, the other gripping Ronan’s upper arm and tugging him away from the door.   
“Sh,” he breathed, hoping his expression was enough to convince Ronan that now was not a time to be a shit about this. They both listened as Adam’s parents’ bedroom door opened, creaking loudly. Held their breaths as the shuffling footsteps came closer. The both of them were standing in plain sight, if anyone opened the door now they would see Ronan. He stared at Adam, trying to gauge how bad the situation would get if that happened, from the terror in Adam’s eyes. Half a second passed, and so did the footsteps, carrying on past Adam’s door, another door opening and closing quietly. Adam shook his head, closed his eyes, mouthed, ‘it’s ok,’ at Ronan, then dropped his hands. He stepped back over to his bed, crawled carefully onto the mattress and climbed under the blanket. Ronan stood still in the middle of the room, trying to breathe as quietly as possible. Adam motioned to him, patted the bed beside him, frowned when Ronan hesitated. Shifting his weight carefully, Ronan eased himself onto the bed next to Adam and pulled his legs up slowly. They lay side by side, as still and quiet as corpses until the toilet flushed, the door opened and shut, the footsteps made their way passed Adam’s room again, and finally, the other bedroom door shut again. Ronan exhaled, turned his head to look at Adam to find Adam looking at him.   
“Thanks,” Adam said.   
“For?” Ronan asked, confused.  
“Being quiet,” Adam mumbled, rolled over, “not asking questions,” he added, pre-emptive and firm.   
Ronan nodded at Adam’s back, shuffled onto his side as well, so they were back to back.   
“Night,” he said. 

 

Ronan woke up, not to Adam’s watch beeping, but to Adam poking him repeatedly in the side.   
“Fuck off,” he mumbled, not opening his eyes.  
“I’m trying to,” Adam replied archly, “you’re trapping me. Get up.”  
“Ngh,” Ronan said eloquently, peered at Adam, closer than expected. He was lying on top of Adam’s shoulder, which yes, again was damp from his own drool. He shut his mouth and sat up, releasing Adam, who sat up immediately as well and shuffled his way out of the blankets before climbing over Ronan and getting off the bed.   
“I didn’t hear the alarm,” Ronan mumbled, scratching his chin, then rubbing at the creases on his cheek.   
“Turned it off five minutes ago,” Adam replied, tugging his trousers on, “figured it’d be fine so long as you give me a lift.”   
“Huh,” Ronan replied. He tugged the blankets off of his legs, and a small hand held torch dropped out from the blankets and onto the floor. Ronan recognised it vaguely from his dreams, Adam frowned at it.   
“Uh,” Ronan said, stooping to pick it up. He turned it on and off a couple of times to check it worked normally, then put it back on the bed, “Forgot to say,” he said, “brought you a torch.”   
Adam, crouched low to tie his laces, made a face at Ronan, “Why?”   
“Dunno,” Ronan hooked his jeans off the floor with his feet, and started to worm his way into them. When he looked up at Adam, Adam was looking at him with something akin to exasperation, but he wasn’t shaking his head.   
“Hurry up and get dressed, Lynch,” he said, “I’ll meet you at your car, yeah?”   
“Uhuh.”

 

Gansey didn’t ask where he had been when he got back to Monmouth, whether it was because he knew where Ronan had been, or he hadn’t noticed, Ronan did not know. Either way, he didn’t bother telling him if he wasn’t being asked. Adam didn’t bring it up either. Not in class, not at lunch, not after school, so neither did Ronan. Noah, however, was a different story. 

“Had another sleepover at Adam’s?” he asked casually, monday night, as Ronan brushed his teeth. He hadn’t heard Noah come in behind him, hadn’t seen him in the mirror. He choked on the toothpaste, and whirled round to glare at Noah who was grinning and leaning against the fridge.   
“Heard of knocking?” he snapped at Noah, who only grinned wider, and shrugged, before floating over to join Ronan at the sink.   
“Do you sleep better at his?” Noah asks, presses one finger down on the open toothpaste until it starts slowly squishing out on the counter.   
“He makes me get up before 5 in the morning,” Ronan grumbled in reply through the foam in his mouth. He spat it out in the sink, “What do you think?”   
“That you sleep better there,” Noah said, “you don’t have bad dreams there?”  
“That’s a weird as fuck question, man,” Ronan says, snatching at the toothpaste tube to try and save some of it from being squeezed out. He caps it and tosses it onto the other side of the bench. Noah makes a small, sad noise at Ronan taking it away, but then he shrugs.   
“I’m glad,” he says vaguely, “that it makes you feel better.”   
He drifts off out the open bathroom door.  
“I don’t even know what the fuck that means!” Ronan yells after him, rinses his mouth out. 

 

This Sunday it’s raining. Ronan considers parking closer than usual to Adam’s trailer, weighs up the pros and cons, decides he’d prefer to get soaked than possibly get Adam into trouble. When he arrives at Adam’s window, he feels like he’s wet to the very bone, and he keeps lifting his hand to swipe his non-existent damp curls of his forehead, some sort of ridiculous habit he hadn’t realised he’d had to break. The window is shut, and it’s so rain dark both in and out of the trailer, he doesn’t think Adam would be able to see him, so he trusts the all encompassing noise of the rain on the trailers to cover his light knock on the window. A small light goes on inside the room, and Ronan grins. When Adam opens it, he doesn’t look surprised, just wryly amused.  
“Is this going to be a thing, Lynch?” he drawls, “Are we going to have Sunday sleepovers on a weekly basis?”   
“Fuck up,” Ronan hissed in reply, “can I come in or nah? I’m fucking drenched.”   
In reply, Adam pushes the window open further and steps away. By the time Ronan’s clambered in, his movements uncomfortably inhibited by the wetness of his jeans, Adam is holding out a towel and a plastic bag. Ronan takes the towel, presses it to his face.   
“Put your clothes in the bag,” Adam instructs, drops it on the floor by his feet, “they won’t get a chance to dry overnight anyway, and I don’t want you to soak my room.”   
“What the fuck am I meant to wear tomorrow, then?” Ronan asks, dropping the towel and beginning the peel his wet clothing off anyway, “Am I getting back into damp clothes or are you picturing me running through the trailer park in the nude?”   
Adam’s turned his back on Ronan, is digging through his fruit’n’veg rack wardrobe, but Ronan can practically hear him rolling his eyes. “Obviously the latter,” he replies sardonically, then, “I’m gonna lend you some clothes, or, you can go home.”   
Ronan chucks his wet shirt at Adam’s head.  
“I’ve always wanted to try out the nerd boy look,” he said easily, “I guess tonight’s as good a night as any.”   
“Asshole,” Adam hisses, grimacing as he pulls Ronan’s shirt off his face. He drops it onto the plastic bag, picks up the towel a moment to scrub it over his face, and then drops it again before stepping over to his bed and getting in.   
“You can borrow the shirt and sweatpants on the top there,” he says, rolling over onto his side to face the wall.  
“Stylish,” Ronan mutters. He kicks off his boots, and strips off his sopping jeans, a very difficult task considering their tightness becomes even clingier while wet. He balls them up with his shirt, stuffs them into the bag, glances at Adam, still facing away, then quickly yanks off his underpants as well before picking the towel back up and drying himself as quickly as possible. He hadn’t realised it was possible to get so wet in such a short amount of time.   
The pants are a little short on him, his entire ankle and a little bit of calf sticking out the bottom, and the waist band low on his hips, but the shirt is comfortable enough. Adam still hasn’t turned around, so he runs the towel over his shaved head one more time, as if his hair needs much drying, and then climbs in behind him. He startles slightly as Ronan presses his cold knees against the backs of his, and Ronan laughs quietly, pokes him, not un-gently, in the back, and says, “You fell asleep?”  
“Was asleep when you got here,” Adam replied, shudders as Ronan pokes him again, “you’re freezing.”   
Spurred on by this, Ronan presses closer until his chest is flush with Adam’s back, and his knees are jostling Adam’s legs. He lays his hands on Adam’s side and Adam bites down on an aggrieved squawk, wriggles ungainly for a second, and then gives up.   
“Dick head,” he says.  
“No,” Ronan says, smirking, “that’s -”  
“If you say ‘Gansey’,” Adam huffed, “I swear I will make you leave.”   
“Rude.”  
Adam doesn’t reply, neither does he move to make Ronan unhand him, or shift away from his heat, so Ronan stays where he is. Presses his cold face against the back of Adam’s neck, listens to the rain for a while. He can hear Robert Parrish’s snoring even through the thunder of water on tin roof.   
“Adam,” he says. Adam doesn’t reply, and for a moment Ronan thinks he’s waited too long, and Adam’s already fallen back asleep. Then he turns his head slightly on the pillow, raises his eyebrows. “You don’t mind, yeah?” Ronan asks, and Adam just blinks at him for a moment.   
“Mind what?” he asks.  
“Sunday sleepovers,”   
“Oh,” Adam says, turns his head away again, “Nah,” he says, “you can come over whenever, I guess.”   
They’re both quiet for a moment, then Adam speaks again, “So long as-” he begins, and Ronan nods, interrupts.   
“Yeah,” he says, “I know. Avoid the parents.”  
“Yeah,” Adam says. 

 

He takes Adam’s words to heart, turns up at the window again the next Sunday, and the next, and then, to see if his words really do hold true, turned up on a Thursday night as well. 

Adam looked confused but held back his blankets agreeably anyway. He had already been more than halfway asleep when Ronan climbed through the half open window, and he seemed to be struggling to stay awake as Ronan shuffled himself into a comfortable position next to him.   
“S’not Sunday,” he managed, one eye closed against his pillow. Ronan rolled onto his side to face him, and shrugged.   
“You said I could come over whenever,” he replied, and now Adam shrugged.   
“Yeah,” he agreed, closed his other eye, then opened both of them to look at Ronan more seriously, “you ok?” he asked.  
“The hell?” Ronan replied, squinting through the dark at him, “Why wouldn’t I be?”  
From the look on Adam’s face there were apparently quite a few reasons he wouldn’t be ok. Adam merely shook his head, though, closed his eyes again. “Jus’ checkin’” he mumbles.   
Ronan lets that sit for a moment, and then sighs, doesn’t want to sleep yet. “What un-Godly hour do we have to get up tomorrow?” he asks, and watches Adam rolls his eyes without even bothering to open them.   
“Lynch,” he says, “if you’re so adverse to waking with my schedule, you can stay home, your home,” he yawns, “luckily for the both of us, I don’t have work tomorrow morning. You still have to leave before 7 though.”   
‘Guess I can live with that,” Ronan replies, doesn’t say that Monmouth, though very hospitable to him, was not home. He shuffles a little on the mattress, elbows Adam in the side, mostly by accident. He manages to stay quiet with his thoughts for just over a minute, then, “Done your homework, Parrish?”   
“God,” Adam hissed, “shut the fuck up.”   
Ronan shuts the fuck up.  
Then he stops shutting the fuck up.  
“Hey Parrish,”  
“Ronan I swear to god-”  
“Don’t swear to God, Parrish-”  
“If you don’t shut up and let me sleep-”  
“What would you have done if I said I wasn’t ok?”   
Now Adam shuts the fuck up, only for a moment though. When he speaks again the irritation is gone from his voice, but he sounds very cautious.  
“Are you not ok?” he asks.  
“That’s not an answer,” Ronan says. Adam huffs.  
“I don’t know,” he says, “I guess I would have asked what you needed.”  
“Huh.”  
“So, are you ok?”  
“Are you going to ask what I need?”  
Adam sighed, rolled onto his back. “Ronan,” he says, “what’s going on?”   
“You’re not going to ask what I need, then?” Ronan said in lieu of replying.  
“That depends on whether or not you’re ok, Jesus, Lynch.”  
“You’re the one who seems to think I’m not ok,” Ronan pointed out.  
“Yeah, well,” Adam shifts uncomfortably on his back, “Gansey said-” he cuts himself of, shakes his head. Ronan stills beside him, his breaths coming in uncomfortably loudly.   
“Oh?” his word, barely more than an exhale is still somehow sharp, “What does Gansey say?”   
Adam shakes his head again. “Look, nothing really. He just - you’ve had a lot of shit recently. He’s worried about you.”   
Ronan knows he’s winding himself up further than he ought to, “You and Dick spend a lot of time talking about me then? Do you report everything from our little sleepovers to him, too?”  
He’s not entirely sure if he’s hoping Adam will be hurt, or will get angry, or will just passively tell him that this was all entirely true. Adam does none of this. He rolls back onto his side, eyebrows furrowed.   
“Don’t be a shit, Lynch,” he said firmly, “of course not. We’re your friends. He lives with you. Of course he’s going to fucking worry about you. Your father was fucking murdered, your mum is… I don’t know, and you got kicked out of your home. We all know you’re not fucking ok.”  
Ronan thinks that if the situation didn’t force this conversation to be held in hissed whispers, Adam would probably be quite a bit louder than he is right now. It’s just a thought though. He thinks that he’s not sure he prefers Adam telling the truth, although he’d thought countless times in the past how much he hated when Adam lied to him. To them. Somehow this truth, coming from Adam’s mouth, when Adam never pressed him on things like this, not like Gansey did, was far more stinging than Adam’s lies.   
He lets himself look at Adam, while Adam is looking at him. Both stares blank, both of them too busy in their own heads to be really seeing.   
“If you all know that I’m not fucking ok,” Ronan says, bitter and slow, “why the hell would you even ask?”   
Now Adam is looking at him and seeing him and Ronan wants to roll away and get out of the bed, put his shoes and jeans and jacket back on and climb back out the window. Try again on Sunday. It was a stupid idea to mix things up.   
“Maybe,” Adam says, his voice is just as bitter as Ronan’s, but edged in something more caustic, “maybe because we want you to tell us you’re not so we can help you.”   
Out of all the stupid things Adam has said since Ronan has known him, and he has said a lot of stupid things, mainly pushed out of his mouth by pride and shame, this is the stupidest. It leaves him far too open to attack, and Ronan, having accidentally peeled himself wide open and vulnerable, is not sensitive or sensible enough to stop himself from jabbing back.  
“Now that’s ironic,” he hisses, “fuck, Parrish, in case you haven’t noticed? I’m not the one who turns up half dead and bloody and then refuses help, denies I need it. If everyone knows that I’m not fucking ok, then everyone and their shitty ass father knows that you need help.”  
Adam absolutely does not look half asleep anymore. He doesn’t quite look angry either, he looks as if the anger boiled over and doused the flames, and now all that’s left is a hot pot and a mess.   
“Get out,” he says.  
For half a second Ronan doesn’t move, and it’s half a second too long because Adam pushes him.  
“Get out,” he repeats, harsh, “Get out. Get out. Get out.”   
Ronan gets out. Adam rolls over, tugging the blankets with him, squishes himself face first against the wall. Ronan puts his jeans on, blood whirling in his ears, shoves his feet ungainly into his boots, hooks his jacket over his shoulder. He pushes on the window and Adam speaks again.  
“Deflecting the problem doesn’t make it fucking go away, Lynch.”   
“That’s what I was trying to say to you,” Ronan hisses back, leaves.

 

Adam entirely ignores him the following morning. Doesn’t look at him during Latin, doesn’t speak to him during lunch. His gaze seems to skip right over the spot where Ronan sits. Gansey notices, of course, catches first Adam’s eye and makes a face, mouths a question. Adam shakes his head, terse, so Gansey stares at Ronan until Ronan looks back and Gansey mouths the same question. Ronan leaves. 

 

Gansey leaves it alone all day. Then he leaves it alone all weekend. Then Ronan stomps around Monmouth all Sunday evening, alternating between kicking things and tossing things. Then Gansey goes to bed and Ronan, who had been a constant dark cloud in his periphery all night, turns off the main light, drifts over and settles himself on the end of the bed.   
Things are easier in the dark. Gansey turns off his bedside lamp as well, squints at Ronan, lit up only by faint light coming through their large uncurtained windows.   
“What’s going on, Ronan?” he asks.  
“You and Adam gossiping about me?” Ronan questions, an answer.   
Gansey sighs, a short but exceedingly heavy noise. He wants to reach through the gloom and take hold of Ronan’s knee, or arm, or hand, or something. Anchor Ronan to him. Explain the difference between gossiping, and how occasionally when Ronan is stretched so thin between his grief and his anger that he looks like he’s either going to snap or disappear, occasionally he’ll admit to Adam how scared he is that there will be no bouncing back from this.   
Instead he asks another question; “What did Adam say?”   
He can tell that Ronan is scowling, though between his bad eyesight and the dark, he can’t see it to confirm it.   
“He said that everyone knows I’m not ok. He said that you said you were fucking worried.”   
“Oh.” Now Gansey does reach out, touches Ronan’s knee vaguely to determine what it was he was touching, and then wraps his hand around it, holds tightly. “Is that why you’re fighting?”   
“Yes,” Ronan says, “No,” Ronan says, “Maybe,” Ronan says.   
Gansey waits.   
“I’m ok, Gansey,” Ronan says, “I mean, God, I mean -” he grunts in frustration at his lack of coherency and Gansey squeezes his knee tighter, waits.   
“I’m gonna be ok, right?” he says eventually, “Everything is fucking shit, all the time, but it’s gonna change, it has to, yeah? I’m not pushing you away, am I?”  
Gansey is not entirely sure how many of those questions were rhetorical, and which ones, if he didn’t answer them, would send Ronan into a meltdown. He pushes himself into a vaguely upright position, tugs at Ronan’s knee until Ronan unfolds himself somewhat to allow himself to be pulled close enough that Gansey can make out his face.  
“You’re going to be ok,” Gansey says, “things are going to change, get better, and I’m not going to let you push me away.” Ronan doesn’t look like he’s going to run away, or push Gansey away, he looks almost content so Gansey pushes forward.   
“Have things been getting better at all? Getting worse?”  
Ronan shrugs, shifts his hand from somewhere in the sheets to rest on top of Gansey’s on his knee, presses down. Not holding, not exactly, more like pinning it to him. Anchoring himself.   
“Sometimes,” he says, “Sundays are bad.”   
“Yeah?”   
“Everything is wrong about church when it’s just the three of us.”  
“Yeah.”   
“I hate it all so much sometimes I can’t stand it,” he says, “I feel like I’m going to fucking melt into the pew, or break the pew.”  
“Do you want to take a break from going, for a while?” Gansey suggests, and Ronan laughs. Not really a laugh at all, just a harsh ‘ha’, brutal for the throat and ears alike, then he sobers.   
“I can’t,” he says, truthful, “It would kill Matthew, and Declan would kill me, and it’s the only place left I can go that still has my parents.”   
“Ok,” Gansey says.   
“Mum would be so disappointed in me,” Ronan says, laughs again, this time less brutal but more deprecating.   
“Ronan,” Gansey says, unsure how to put his emotions into words. How to say how upset he thought Aurora would be, yes, upset to see her son beat himself down into dirt, hurt himself until he looked as painful as he felt. Upset to see him upset, not disappointed.   
Ronan smiled at him, took his hand off of Gansey’s.   
“I’m going out. Don’t wait up,” he says, and Gansey allows himself a brief moment of panic and his own disappointment, clutches Ronan’s knee tighter again, forestalling movement.   
“Adam’s?” he asked, hopeful, not holding his breath.   
“Yeah,” Ronan said, “if he’ll have me. Otherwise I’ll be back, I promise, man” he says, his voice is low, earnest, and he’s met Gansey’s eyes in the dark. “If I don’t come back tonight I’m at his. Don’t worry about me.”   
Gansey does not promise not to worry. He isn’t as against lying as Ronan is, but he tries to avoid it. He nods, removes his hand from Ronan’s knee. 

 

It’s well past midnight, but Adam is still awake. Not studying, just curled up in his bed in the dark. Although he told himself when he went to bed, hours ago now, that Ronan would not be coming tonight, that he didn’t want Ronan to be coming tonight, his mind seemed insistent that he couldn’t properly go to sleep until Ronan arrived, because it was a Sunday, and now Sunday meant that Ronan would come. He thinks that maybe if they hadn’t fought on Thursday he wouldn’t be so wound up now, knowing that Ronan is not coming, but still believing he’s coming. If he had no reason to think Ronan wouldn’t come, he would probably have fallen asleep already, expecting to wake up when Ronan arrived, would only realise in the morning that he hadn’t. He eyes his window through the dark, he keeps it open, just a crack, so Ronan doesn’t have to knock to get his attention. He thinks about getting up and closing it to try and prove to himself that he truly does know that Ronan isn’t coming. He’s just about convinced himself to stand up and close it when the window opens further instead, and he freezes under the blankets, considers pretending to be asleep.   
“Parrish?”  
The whisper is quiet enough that he could easily ignore it.  
“What the fuck do you want, Lynch?” he hisses back instead.   
“Can I come in?”   
Adam attempts to pause and consider, but his mouth is already speaking, “I said whenever, didn’t I?”   
He can’t see Ronan, can’t begin to guess what his expression is.   
“You did,” Ronan replies, climbs through the window. He doesn’t make to undress immediately like he usually does, eager to get into the warmth of the bed and torture Adam with his chilly limbs. Instead he perches on the very edge of the bed, his back to Adam.  
“I shouldn’t have said what I said,” he says. It’s not an apology. Adam doesn’t think he’s actually ever heard Ronan apologise, or at least not heard him apologise in a non-sarcastic tone. It feels as close to an apology as he thinks he might ever get. For a long, too long, moment, Adam considers not accepting this barely there apology. Considers telling Ronan to get out again, telling him that it’ll take a lot more than that to smooth this shit over. Considers telling him that he just doesn’t fucking get it, doesn’t get why this is different. Why they’re different, why Ronan can ask for help, should ask for help. He sniffs.   
“Are you gonna fucking get in the bed, or what?” he asks, and Ronan doesn’t respond - except he does -by reaching down to untie his shoelaces. He waits until Ronan has settled down under the blankets, lying on the very edge of the mattress as if trying to extend his apology by offering Adam space, should he want it.  
“Me too,” he says awkwardly, frowns, “I shouldn’t have, I mean,” he adds, “I didn’t mean to lose my temper.” He doesn’t want to apologise to Ronan if Ronan isn’t going to apologise to him, but he can offer him this not-quite apology instead, in return.   
Ronan shifts to lie on his back, effectively filling the space he had left between them, turns his head on the edge of the pillow to look at Adam.   
“There are worse things to lose,” he offered, Adam rolled his eyes and Ronan continued, “your sense of humour, for one, control of your bladder, almost as bad as losing your sense of humour-” he pauses when Adam shoves him, lightly.   
“Ok,” he says, offering forgiveness, easy as that.   
“Ok,” Ronan replies, accepting forgiveness, easy as that.   
“Seriously though,” Adam says, “I need to sleep now so shut up, ok?”   
“Ok,” Ronan says again. 

 

Things are ok. Sometimes, Adam thinks, things are better than ok. He and Ronan aren’t fighting anymore, neither are he and Gansey. He doesn’t think he and Noah have ever really fought, doesn’t worry about that. He got several great grades back over the last few weeks, this week he got a large tip at Boyd’s for a nice piece of work done, which meant that his parents were almost pleased with him. His father especially. He takes the money enthusiastically, talks at Adam as if he liked him for half an hour, about the horse he was going to put this money on, and about how he was going to win big, and how, maybe, Adam wasn’t such a disappointment after all. Possibly not quite like he liked him, then, but it was better than their usual conversation. His mother was smiling afterwards. Things are good, not great, but good. Because of this, when Gansey asks if he’s free late the following Sunday afternoon to explore a Glendower lead, Adam says he is. He lets them drop him off afterwards, the evening only just clinging on to the last of the light. He nudges shoulders with Noah in the backseat, leans forward to press his knuckles to Gansey’s in the driver’s seat, and then ducks behind Ronan’s seat to get out, pausing before shutting the door.   
“See you guys,” he said, directed it to Gansey, glanced at Ronan, “see you later?”   
“Yeah,” Ronan nods, once, easy.   
“Take care, Adam,” Gansey says.   
Adam shuts the door, Gansey drives off.   
Things, Adam thinks, are sometimes more than ok. 

This had also been what Ronan had been thinking. Was still thinking as he picked his way through the trailer yard just after midnight. He’d been here in the dark often enough that he knew his way confidently, but he walked slow every time, just in case something had moved. Didn’t want to risk making noise, waking a local mutt, causing a scene that might wake someone who shouldn’t be woken. He’s never so worried about that when he’s inside Adam’s room, although probably he ought to be more so, but once he’s inside the trailer he can hear the person who shouldn’t wake up, very loudly sleeping, and it’s a little easier to feel safer when you know where your enemy is.

When he reaches out to hook the window frame so as to open it wider, his fingers find no purchase, and he frowns. Steps closer to peer in the dark at the very firmly closed window. It’s not particularly windy, or raining, and yeah, it’s cold, but not more than usual, so he can’t think of any reason Adam would have closed the window. He thinks, maybe his mother closed it while he was out, and he didn’t notice. He peers through the glass, thinks maybe he can make out Adam in his bed, but can’t quite tell. He lifts his hand, taps just one finger against the glass -tk. Waits a few moments, looking for movement, listening for trouble. When neither comes, he taps again. Hopes Adam realises it’s not just a night noise, hopes his parents don’t. He watches the lump on the bed move, blankets shifting. A pale shape moves towards the window, hesitant, and for a moment Ronan is struck with the fear that he’s somehow got the wrong window, or someone got the wrong bed. Then Adam unlatches the window. He doesn’t move away to let Ronan come in, but neither does he step forwards so that Ronan can see him properly. He holds the window open, but only enough for sound, not bodies.   
“Hey,” he says, sounds like he means to say something else. Ronan waits a few seconds for the something else to follow, and when it doesn’t, speaks.   
“You gonna let me in?” he asks.  
“I don’t think it’s a good idea tonight,” Adam replies, slow, his accent is thicker on his tongue than usual, or, he’s slurring slightly like he’s half asleep or vaguely tipsy.   
“Why?” Ronan prods, grips the edge of the window and watches Adam’s knuckles, still gripped around the window handle, whiten. “You got someone else in there with you?”   
“No,” Adam breathes, “it’s just a bad time. Ok?”  
Ronan considers saying ok. Considers pressing on the idea that Adam might have someone else in his bed with him tonight. Considers leaving. He doesn’t believe Adam. Or rather, he absolutely believes Adam, but knows that the truth here is being circled not pinpointed.   
“You said whenever,” he points out, childishly he knows, “and earlier you said tonight.”  
Adam sighs at him, a particularly Adam brand of annoyed sigh.   
“I’m allowed to change my mind,” he bit out, “I thought that latching the window would be enough of a hint.”   
Ronan stared at him, or tried to at least, through the dusty glass and dark. “If you’re gonna use a fucking window open and closed code to say when I can come round, you should probably tell me before expecting it to work,” he snipes back.   
“I’m telling you now,” Adam says, “window closed, don’t come in. Window open, whatever.”   
Ronan is starting to think that the edge of Adam’s voice, not the slurred or drawled edge, the edge he had thought was anger or irritation was, maybe, not anger or irritation. He wants to poke at it until he knows what it is, something is telling him that’s not a good idea, or at least, not a nice idea.   
“Great, can we have a code for when you’re being a dick as well?” Ronan asked, “Or for when you’re being an idiot?”   
“Go away, Lynch,” Adam sighs.   
Ronan almost goes away. He steps a little to the side, leans forward to rest his forehead against the side of the trailer.   
“Adam,” he says. Adam doesn’t repeat his request, just sighs again. That’s enough for Ronan to confirm what the edge is. “Adam, what happened?” he asks.   
“I don’t wanna talk about it.” His voice is all edge now. All edge and slur, not drawl, there’s not enough room to fit that in as well.   
“He’s really fucked you up tonight, hasn’t he?” Ronan mumbles, eyes closed, listens to Adam inhale and exhale and inhale again. This isn’t something they talk about. It’s something they skirt around. Something Gansey pleads and yells about, and Noah bites his lip and wrings his hands about. Something Adam seems to pretend doesn’t exist. He doesn’t reply, but he doesn’t close the window, doesn’t tell Ronan to go away again.   
“Why?” Ronan asks, “What happened? Did we get you home too late?”  
Adam is exhaling again, long and slow, rough.   
“No,” he says, “No.”  
Ronan waits, carefully doesn’t open his eyes to look at Adam, carefully stays as still as possible, listens to Adam as he inhales again, stuttering and short.   
“His horse didn’t win,” he says at last, “he was sure it would. He lost a lot of money.” He’s speaking in short, stilted sentences, as if it costs him far too much to admit any of this, “I gave him the money, so obviously it’s my fault.”   
Ronan waits a moment more, tries to ignore the slick feeling of anger in his chest, the sickness in his stomach.   
“Ok,” he says, “so I know now. Can I come in?”   
The silence is long, loud, filled entirely with the blood rushing in Ronan’s ears, the horror pooling in his throat. He knew all of this already, none of this was news, he’d seen the sort of bruises Adam wore. He’d even met Robert Parrish, saw how greasily awful he was. It was different hearing Adam actually admit to what was happening. Even this not quite admittal, this careful reveal.   
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Adam says, it’s another sigh. He’s stepping away from the window, leaving it open. Ronan waits, just a moment more, lets Adam get back into bed before he climbs in the window after him. They’re both silent as Ronan takes off his shoes. He listens to the drone of sleeping from the next room, listens to Adam’s breathing still catching in his throat. He wants to turn the bedside lamp on, to turn the little torch on, see how bad it really is, know where he should avoid pressing up against. He gets into the bed, cautious, hisses as his hand brushes against Adam’s skin.   
“You’re fucking burning up,” he says, presses his palm against Adam’s arm, then trails up it until he finds his shoulder, then his neck, this his face, presses his palm to his cheek. “God, Parrish,” he huffs, “shit, I could cook an egg on you, what the fuck?”   
Adam shifts his head uneasily under Ronan’s hand, obviously trying to dislodge him so Ronan drops his hand away, continues to stare down in horror at him, although he still can’t make out the damage in the dark, can barely tell where Adam’s face is.   
“It’s fine,” Adam breathes out, “It will be fine,” he amends, “this happens. I’ll be ok in the morning.”   
“In the morning,” Ronan says, “you could be dead.”   
“Why?” Adam almost sounds amused, “Are you planning on finishing the job?”   
It’s not quite like a kick to the gut, but almost.   
“What the fuck, Parrish,” he hisses, “what the fuck.”   
Adam sighs, it appears to be his easiest form of communication currently, and rolls very slowly onto his side. Ronan hates how slowly he’s moving, hates it enough he wants to tell him to get a fucking move on, hates it enough that he wants to be entirely asshole.   
Aam reaches out, presses his hand to Ronan’s shoulder, squeezes.  
“Ronan,” he says, “I will honestly be fine. I promise. I wouldn’t bother with the early mornings if I was planning on dying from a fever before I leave high school.”   
Ronan would like to point out that the majority of people who die earlier than they ought to didn’t plan on it either, but their lives were wasted nonetheless.   
“If you’re not ok in the morning,” Ronan says, “I’m taking you to Monmouth.”   
“For fucks sake,” Adam says, but he sounds too tired to be angry, “seriously?”   
“Yeah,” Ronan nods vigorously enough he knows Adam will be able to feel it, “If you die who else am I supposed to copy homework from?”   
“I don’t let you copy my homework, Lynch,” Adam sniffs, “plus, you always have Gansey.”   
“Fuck off,” Ronan said, “if I’m making an effort I want better grades than Gansey’s.”  
“I didn’t realise copying someone else's work counted as making an effort,” Adam snorted, and Ronan smiled, less concerned now that Adam would die in his sleep.   
He wants to push on, ask if there was blood spilled, ask if anything’s broken, ask him to please, please, please fucking move out, Parrish, God.   
Adam rolls again, slow, stilted, until he’s curled on his side away from Ronan.   
“4.30?” Ronan asks. He can just make out the feeling of Adam nodding. “Ok,” he says, “Night.” 

He’s been falling asleep here every time he’s come over, sleeping better when he’s not surrounded by himself, when he’s not feeling like he’s being baby sat. He hadn’t meant to originally, but the warmth, the steady breathing had lulled him to sleep the first night, and he’d willingly let it all the nights following.   
Tonight he felt like his hands were already wet with dreamt blood.  
He could so easily imagine going into his dreams with the rage in his marrow right now and walking straight into a nightmare. Maybe his nightmare, maybe someone elses. A nightmare involving Adam’s father and Ronan’s fist. Or a nightmare involving Adam’s father and Adam’s face. Either way there would be blood, and probably quite a bit of it on Ronan, and how the fuck would he explain that to Adam if he brought it back? Or worse, if he brought back a horror, his own or Adam’s. It was not a night for dreaming, not a night for trusting himself. 

He lay still against Adam’s side as Adam’s breathing evened out, deepened. As Adam’s skin cooled slightly against his touch, as early early dawn light crept through the window and lit up the purple explosion of bruises up Adam’s face, down his neck. Guiltily, he prayed that Adam’s fever would get worse, that Adam would let him take him back to Monmouth, that Adam would agree to call in sick to work and school. Guiltily because he didn’t want Adam to have a fever, guiltily because he didn’t think Adam would want him praying for him. Too much like pity maybe, too much like false hope maybe. There wasn’t room in Adam’s life, in Adam’s mind, for miracles or magic. 

Adam’s wrist beeped, as always, at 4.30, and Ronan lay there for half a minute, waiting for Adam to wake up like he always did to turn it off. When he didn’t stir, he worried that the beeping would wake Adam’s parents, get Adam in trouble, get Ronan discovered, so he pulled Adam’s hand out from under the sheets and fumbled with the watch buttons himself until he managed to press the one that shut it up. After that, he hesitated. Unsure if he should wake Adam and risk him saying he was fine and heading off to work, or if he should let the time tick on until it was too late for Adam to go to work and he’d be forced to call in sick. Even if Adam was too sick to get mad about it when he woke up, Ronan had no doubts that he wouldn’t be mad once he was capable of it. One of Adam’s many skills was his capability of holding a grudge longer than the average human being.   
He woke Adam up. 

Sat up in the bed and gripped his shoulder, careful in case the bruises sinking below the neck of his shirt traveled that far as well, and shook him gently.   
“Fucker,” he whispered, “wake up,”  
It took a few more shakes, a few more hissed invocations before Adam opened his eyes blearily, then blinked them hard in what looked like bare panic. He seemed for a moment to be having trouble focusing on Ronan, but when he did, he groaned and shut his eyes again.   
“Yeah, good morning to you too,” Ronan muttered, letting go of him, “you look like shit.”   
“Feel like shit.”   
“Is it just the face?”  
“Why did you wake me up?”  
Ronan scowled. “Your alarm went off.”  
Adam groaned again, didn’t open his eyes. Ronan lifted his hand, pressed his palm against Adam’s forehead, kept it there until Adam cracked one eye open and glared at him.  
“The fuck?” he rasped.  
“You’re coming to Monmouth with me,” Ronan replied, smiling, “no complaining.”   
“The fuck,” Adam repeated, opened his other eye, “I’m not. I’m going to work.”   
Rolling his eyes, Ronan pulled his hand away, wiped it on the sheets between them, and stood up. “You agreed. You’re not ok, you’re still running a fever, you’re coming to Monmouth and skipping work.”   
This appeared to be too much unpleasant and apparently wrong information to take in at once, Adam just stared at him, shaking his head ever so slightly.   
“I’m really not trying to pick a fight here,” Ronan continued, “but this is the point where you’re supposed to let me help you.”   
Surprisingly, Adam only glared, too busy with more pressing issues such as moving, to comment on Ronan’s particular idiocy.   
“I have to work today,” he said firmly, “I’ve gotta make that money back.”  
“The money that your asshole father lost?”   
“Uhuh,” Adam’s struggling to push himself upright now, “if you don’t wanna fight, stop talking.”   
His voice is still half slur. In the dim light, Ronan can easily see that that’s due to the fact that his jaw is swollen and mottled.   
Ronan spends half a second thinking about pushing Adam back down onto the bed rather than watch him attempt to pull himself out of it. Then he leaned down and began pulling his jeans on instead.  
“Your boss isn’t going to want you working with a fever,” he says.   
“I’m not going to tell him,” Adam said, succeeding in sitting up, now shuffling to the edge of the bed.   
“You don’t think he’ll notice?” He sits back down next to Adam to pull his boots on, watches Adam slowly swing his legs over the side of the bed.   
“He’s good at not noticing,” Adam sighed. He looked worse sitting up. Lying down, the blankets and the pillow obscured some of the bruising, and most of the swelling. The flush on his face in bed just looked like warmth. Sitting up it was all too obvious that he was very much the opposite of ok. He wondered if there was a polite way to point this out. Then he stood up again.   
“I’ll meet you at my car, yeah?” he said. Adam looked perversely relieved, nodded quickly. 

 

By the time Adam made it to the car, he felt, if possible, worse. He hadn’t thought that the previous night’s beating had been anything particularly excessive, but maybe because he’d managed to avoid it for so long, almost two whole months with barely anything, his body was overreacting. 

His mother had come out of her bedroom while he had still been at the kitchen sink, gulping down as much water as he could to try and persuade his body, to at least pretend to be healthy. She had looked his bruises up and down, analytically, and asked if he thought he would get away with them at school today, or if he would just pick up an extra shift at Boyd’s and make up the money that way. Adam had replied as vaguely and politely as he could manage with his stiff face, and then left. He usually cycled his bike down the drive and to the corner where Ronan parked, but he wasn’t sure he’d currently be able to keep his seat - his limbs were being irritatingly shaky - so he walked it to the car instead.   
He’s ready to snap, to be completely shitty to Ronan if he tries to give him a hand with his bike, but luckily for the both of them, luckier for Adam, he thinks, Ronan simply pops the boot. He watches in the rear view mirror as Adam slowly wrangles the bike in, attempting heroically, failing pathetically to keep his breathing even, to not look in pain. It’s an ordeal, and every few moments he looks up, meets Ronan’s eyes in the mirror, scowls, and looks down again. Ronan doesn’t offer to help. 

He practically collapses into the passenger seat, makes a cursory attempt to reach round and do his seatbelt up, and gives up at the eye-watering pain.   
“Boyd’s?” Ronan asks. Without the foil of the mirror, he’s not looking at Adam. Adam lets himself look at Ronan carefully not looking at him.   
“Yeah,” he says to Ronan’s profile, watches as his jaw clenches.   
Ronan drives them to Boyd’s, doesn’t try to convince him out of it even once. He can’t help but reimagine this situation with different company. Gansey would be tense and quiet, at some point in the drive he’d burst like a water balloon filled with pity, and soak Adam with intense pleas. Then they would both get mad.   
Noah, he thought, would spend the drive either eerily quiet as if he’s forgotten he has a voice, or, he would spend the entire drive making increasingly cryptic comments.   
His father, though he hadn’t driven anywhere with his father for a long time, would immediately notice just how full of self-pity Adam was at the moment, and would poke at that weakness as hard as possible. As if it were possible to insult it out of existence instead of making Adam himself feel more and more unreal.   
Boyd would make uneasy comments as far away from the subject at hand as possible, would give him what he thought were empathetic grimaces. Would pat his shoulder a little too hard. 

Just these thoughts fill him with even more self-pity, an almost overwhelming amount. The fact that these are the only people he can even think of who notices his existence, whether he wants them to or not. The fact that even in the safety of his own imagination he won’t, can’t imagine anyone offering him kind pity or something softer than pity, can’t imagine himself accepting anything. The fact that he’s avoiding even the moment he’s in as an avoidance mechanism, trying to escape his self-pity but only blundering into more of it. 

He doesn’t usually bother with hating himself, he has his father for that, but it’s just so very easy in moments like this, when his own thoughts are a rainfall of cruel comments to himself. 

It takes him far too long to realise that the car is stopped. That Ronan is talking to him. That he can’t remember the drive here, too deep in his head to notice time and scenery passing. 

“-at me,” Ronan is saying, “Parrish. God. You are not doing a good job convincing me that you’re ok enough to work.” He’s leaning over from his seat, waving a hand in front of Adam’s face. Adam blinks hard.   
“I’m fine,” he says, “zoned out is all.” He makes to undo his seat belt, remembers he didn’t put it on in the first place and immediately feels awkward, as if he doesn’t know the next move in getting out of the car. Doesn’t want to get out of the car.   
“You still with me?” Ronan says, “Jesus fuck, Parrish, are you even awake?”   
“Nope,” Adam snaps back, fumbles with the door until he grabs the handle and yanks it open, “I’m going,” he says. He manages to get out of the door with a little grace, doesn’t quite shut the door properly behind him, so opens it again, and slams it shut. Ronan says nothing the entire time. Is still sitting behind the wheel, so Adam nods at him, raises one hand in shaky farewell, and turns to walk into the garage.   
His mother is right, he should definitely not go into school today. Boyd would be able to find some more work for him to do instead. They were currently understaffed, there was always something that desperately needed doing. This would be much easier than going to school as well, he didn’t need to engage his brain anywhere near as much. Even if he was sore and aching, his muscles still remembered what to do here, his brain, he thoughts, was much to fuzzy to attempt to both pretend to be someone he wanted to be but wasn’t, and learn new things at once. 

 

Boyd at least has the grace to look sorry. To look like he knows that this is not at all what Adam wants. This expression doesn’t change the fact that he’s sending Adam home, says that Adam is too sick, that he can’t risk an accident because Adam’s half out of it. Adam tries to argue back, calmly, politely, attempts to point out just how fine he is, but he’s painfully aware of how his words come out mangled when he can’t move his jaw properly. He feels hot, prickly all over, sweaty without even working, eyes damp. Boyd apologises again, pats his shoulder just that little bit too hard, and Adam turns to leave again. Realises he didn’t take his bike out of the BMW. 

 

He falters by the doorway, not quite in the way, but not really out of the way either, unsure if he wants to go outside now, now, now and walk around the back so he can just fucking cry a little to get it out before he has to deal with what next. Unsure if he should turn around again while he’s still here and ask to borrow Boyd’s phone. He could call Gansey, tell him he left his bike in Ronan’s car, could he send Ronan back again? That wasn’t too much to ask, surely. 

Ronan opens the door, and he’s suddenly angry again, then ashamed for being angry, then angry at his shame. It’s a vicious cycle and he’s not sure if the nausea sweeping through him is caused by his emotions or the pain. 

“Parrish,” he says, “you left your fucking tin bike in my boot, you want it or should I take it to the dump?”   
He doesn’t so much make up his mind as much as refuses to think of anything at all as he walks right past Ronan, as he says, “Take me to the dump.”   
It doesn’t really make much sense, but he’s blaming his burning head, his burning eyes, his burning throat. Ronan follows him.   
“What, you want me to toss you in with it?” he’s asking, “Are you aware of how illegal that is? Of how much trouble I could get in? This is gonna be great, and you’re not allowed to complain.”   
Adam lets himself back into the car, slams the door, slumps as far down in the seat as he can without causing his stomach or his joints to revolt too badly. 

“So,” Ronan says once he’s in his own seat. Adam shuts his eyes and prays to whatever the fuck that Ronan isn’t going to ask for an explanation, isn’t going to say I told you so, isn’t going to say anything that makes the anger in Adam poke through his stomach lining again. He’s so fucking sick of how easy it is to get angry when he’s like this.  
“So,” Adam mumbles.  
“Gansey’s gonna be so sad that you refer to Monmouth as the dump, y’know,” Ronan says, “he has a miraculously blind eye for these sort of things, he thinks Monmouth is like… a modern day castle. And like the Pig is his mighty steed instead of an asshole. Or like how he thinks you’re sunshine and miracles and actually you’re just a grumpy fucker.” He’s pulled his belt on while talking, turned the key and started the car. Grins at Adam, then backs out of the park. 

Something is poking, sharp and uncomfortable at Adam’s stomach, but it doesn’t feel like anger. He lets himself laugh, not much, too painful for anything more than a deep breath, but Ronan’s grin spreads wider anyway.   
Then of course, Adam remembers Gansey, and the spike in his stomach spikes harder, different again, less funny.   
“Fuck,” he says, “if Gansey sees this he’s gonna be…” he trails off, too many words battling for first place of how he imagines Gansey would react to seeing Adam not only bruised and freshly beaten, but quite obviously sick.   
“Intolerable?” Ronan suggest, “Disgustingly maternal? Overbearing? Obnoxious? Worried?”  
He’s far too aware that Ronan is only half kidding, that he doesn’t really find this funny.   
“Ok, well,” Ronan is saying, “Gansey has crew this morning. You’re fucking safe from him trying to tell you what you already know about your life.”   
He ignores the bitterness in Ronan’s voice.   
“Noah?”  
“Noah won’t dob you in. You’re gonna have to deal with his lip quivering, but whatever. You’re both big boys it’ll be fine.”   
“Jerk.”  
“Yeah, that’s news.” 

Noah isn’t home either, so there’s no lip quivering to have to deal with. While Ronan heads to the bathroom/kitchen/laundry/hellsite, mumbling something about getting the first aid kit, Adam stands, wavering, in the middle of the main room. He’s torn between flopping onto the ridiculously grubby couch in the middle of the room, it won’t matter if he gets it dirty, but it wouldn’t be good on his bruises, or if he should overstep and collapse onto Gansey’s bed which always looks like heaven to sleep on, but would be very noticeable if he bled on it. Or if he should just stand here like a fucking meerkat until Ronan comes back and gives him an odd look like he is currently doing.   
“Sit the fuck down, Parrish,” he snaps, and when Adam doesn’t immediately move, still too caught up in indecision, he crosses the room and takes him almost gently by the elbow to lead him to Gansey’s bed.   
“Dick won’t mind,” Ronan says, “sit down.”   
Adam sits down.   
Ronan sits down next to him, a well-worn looking box in his lap.   
“You want painkillers?” he asks, “It’ll help the fever go down. Bruise cream?”   
“Yeah,” Adam says, “sure.” 

 

Adam’s more than half asleep, probably somewhere closer to 7/8ths asleep when a thought occurs to him.   
“Lynch,” he mumbles. Knows Ronan is somewhere in the room still. After plying him with drugs and water and cream, and all but forcing him to lie down on the bed and pulling the blankets over him, he’d wandered off into the room. Adam had heard him walking around for a while, and then nothing, but thinks, knows, that Ronan hasn’t left.   
“What.” Still in the room then.   
“You’re going to school.”   
“Is that a question, Parrish?”   
“No.”   
“Someone has to stay here and look after your fucked up ass,” Ronan snaps back. Adam can hear him walking back towards the bed, heavy footsteps.   
“I don’t want you to,” he replies. Keeps his eyes closed.  
Ronan stops before he reaches the bed, but close enough that Adam can easily hear his frustrated sigh.   
“Don’t want, but you kinda look like you need it. You think I want to babysit?”  
“Don’t need you to,” Adam says, knows his voice is fading, “I’m jus’ gon’ be sleepin’.” He pauses for a moment to work up the energy to keep opening his mouth through the pain. “Not gonna be th’ reason you skip class again. Fucker.”   
Ronan snorts, Adam can’t tell if it’s deprecation or amusement, but then he’s quiet for a long moment. When he finally speaks, it jolts Adam out of his 7/8th sleep again.   
“If you fucking die while I’m gone,” he says, slowly, “Gansey will be pissed off at me, and I’ll be pissed off at you. I’ll buy a Ouija board solely to opposite haunt you. There’ll be no peaceful crossing for you, just constant angry ouija calls from me.”  
Adam would laugh if he wasn’t mostly asleep. He nods instead.   
“I’d say text, if you need anything,” Ronan says, now there’s deprecation, and amusement, “but you don’t have a fucking phone and I wouldn’t read your texts anyway. So, if you need anything, suffer.”   
Adam nods again. Then he sleeps. 

When he wakes, the sun has seeped into the room, poured across the bed he’s crumpled into. It’s what woke him, light prodding at his eyelids. It’s not enough to keep him awake, enough to make him grumble at the unfairness of the world in general and push and shove at the blankets around him until he’s rolled over away from the sun, then goes back to sleep. 

 

“Keep your fucking voice down, Noah,” Ronan snaps, not keeping his voice down.   
“I was,” Noah protests, he sounds amused, “you’re the one with no concept of an ‘inside voice’,”  
“Yeah? Well your mum-” Ronan begins, is cut off by a noise that sounds suspiciously like he’d been hit full in the face with a cushion.  
Then the shrieking begins and Adam doesn’t bother pretending they might quiet down again. Anyway, he should be awake now, should be getting up. He’d already wasted so much time sleeping.   
When he pushed himself up on his elbow, the shrieking quite abruptly stopped, and Ronan swore.   
“Fuck, Noah!” he said through a grin, “You woke him up!”  
“Oh, yeah,” Adam mumbled, “it was definitely Noah’s whispering that woke me up, not your fucking elephant feet.”   
Ronan swore again, looking no less gleeful. Then he released Noah from the headlock he’d been holding him down in, and very pointedly stomped his way over to Adam on the bed.   
He had been intending to sit up, then get up out of bed, actually move a little, but he’d only made it to the sit up point before he was suddenly exhausted. Ronan dropped himself down onto the mattress next to him, and with no preliminaries, pressed his hand to Adam’s forehead again. Now Adam swore.   
“Fuck off, Lynch,” he groaned, leaned into the coolness of the hand anyway, “y’know,” he continued, “you could use your words. Like, you could ask how I feel rather than just getting all up in my face. Literally.”   
“You’ve been known to lie about how you’re feeling,” Ronan replies with surprising sincerity, “better to find the facts out for myself.”   
Noah obliges him, however. He hovers still over by the couch where Ronan had released him, and smiles at Adam.   
“How are you feeling, Adam?” he asks, “Ronan hasn’t accidentally poisoned you yet?”   
“Is he likely to?” Adam retorts, grins as well as he can back at Noah, shoves Ronan’s hand off his face, “I’m feeling really good,” he says, almost honestly, “I have to go,” he adds, looking to Ronan now, knowing before he does that he’ll see his expression turn disgruntled.   
“Back home?” Ronan asks, voice bitter. This is what pushes Adam into action, and he swings his legs over the side of the bed, yanks at the blankets until he’s free, and then stands up.   
“I have an after school shift at the factory,” he says, “and seeing as I missed my shift before school at Boyd’s, I really do I have to go.”   
Ronan begins to say something that Adam is certain he’s not going to appreciate, but Noah interrupts. He’s standing right by their side, shaking his head and rolling his eyes.   
“Ronan’ll drive you,” he offers, “we were gonna go get gelato across town that way soon. You have enough time to like, shower or whatever,” he adds.  
Ronan pitches back in, not to mime offence at his chauffeur services being offered, but to say, “Yeah Parrish, you fucking stink.” 

Ronan insists on coming back after his shift to pick Adam up again, Adam offers as much resistance as he can, but then Ronan drives away with his bike again, leaving Adam little to no choice on the matter after all. His boss agrees to give him overtime, thank God. He uses his break to first call home and tell his mother he’ll be back late from work, and then to call Ronan, who predictably does not answer his phone, so Adam leaves a message to say he’ll be finishing a few hours later. If Ronan doesn’t bother checking his messages he has no one to blame but himself if he comes too early.   
By the time he leaves the factory, aching and shaking, he’s a little worried that Ronan didn’t get his message and would have got here too early and left again when Adam didn’t show. Maybe he would have left Adam’s bike for him if he was lucky.   
He can’t see the BMW anywhere, and it wouldn’t be easy to miss in the small, mostly empty carpark. He also can’t see his bike. Swearing, he drops himself down on the low barrier between the factory and the park, drops his head into his hands, and breathes heavily through his fingers while he tries to think of what to do next. This is why he doesn’t like having to rely on people, because people let you down, left you stranded. If Ronan had just let him get his bike out, Adam wouldn’t be having to breathe his way out of a panic attack in the middle of the night. He lets his fury heat him up from the pit of his stomach for a few moments, relishing the distraction from the throbbing in his head, and the misery in his lungs. Then he forces himself to be more logical, more practical. Ronan was an asshole, yeah, but not that much of an asshole that he’d just fucking strand Adam here. Especially not after practically forcing Adam to accept his help all day. If he wasn’t coming, then he’d get Gansey to come. Which wasn’t ideal, Gansey would be so nice about it. Still better than the idea of walking home on his bruises though. He wished, not for the first time, or the second, or third, or hundredth time, that he had a phone.   
He could go back inside, borrow the phone in there again, but they were shutting everything down as he was leaving, the office with the phone in it being locked. It’d be a hassle. He could wait for the last few workers to leave, hitch a ride close to his place with one of them. He’d gotten rides with some of them before, when the weather was too storm to safely bike, that would be fine. It did mean he’d have to wait for up to half an hour for them to finish up and leave, but, he thought, that might give Ronan a chance to turn up, late as he was. 

He heard Ronan before he saw him. Or perhaps it wasn’t Ronan that he heard but Kavinsky. The screeching of tires was interchangeable between the two of them. He swore softly as he got to his feet, squinted out into the hazy dark at the headlights he could see screaming through the night. He watched as the dark shadow of the BMW peeled away from the side of the Mitsu - Kavinsky continuing on straight as Ronan veered off to his right towards the factory drive. By the time Ronan had pulled up to where Adam stood, Adam was fuming. He yanked the door open before Ronan had fully stopped the car, and stared into the car furiously.   
“What the fuck, Lynch?” he spat, tried to say something more useful, “What the fuck?”   
Ronan shrugged.  
“Sorry,” he said lightly, “didn’t mean to be late, Kavinsky intercepted me on my way here.”   
“God,” Adam snapped, stepping around the door to throw himself onto the seat, “don’t pin this on Kavinsky, he’s a shithole but it’s not on him that you joined in with his idiocy.”   
“Chill the fuck out, man,” Ronan snapped back, “you’re just as bad as Gansey.”  
“Gansey treats you like a kid,” Adam said, ignoring the painful pull in his arm as he yanked the seatbelt round himself, “I’m just telling you you’re being stupid.”  
“God, get off your high fucking horse, Parrish,” Ronan bit out, “ I’m doing you a favour here, you could cut me some slack.” he pulled out of the parking lot, accelerator growling.   
“I didn’t ask you to.”  
“Oh ok then, you want me to just drop you off here then?” Ronan spat, not slowing down at all to back up his threat.  
“Yes,” Adam hissed, hand on his seatbelt.   
Ronan made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a feral cat, and reached one hand over to bat Adam’s hand from the buckle. “Fuck off,” he said, “I’m taking you home. You still look like shit.”   
“If this is you trying to avoid an argument you’re really bad at it,” Adam said, and then huffed in annoyance as Ronan laughed in reply.   
“I never avoid arguments,” he said, “especially when I’m right.”   
“You’re pretty hardpressed to be right after racing Kavinsky.”  
“Jesus fuck, man,” Ronan sighed, turning a corner a little too quickly, “just let it go, yeah?”  
“You’re avoiding an argument.”   
“Am not.”  
“Are too- oh God, whatever, Lynch.” 

It never took as long as it ought to take to drive from the factory to Adam’s house when Ronan was driving. If they hadn’t just fought, or really, if they hadn’t just fought while Adam was still feeling so shit, he might have suggested they spend the time they saved on the drive by going to grab some chips, or just generally fucking around. They fought too much and too often to bother staying mad if it was going to get in the way of doing something fun, but in the mood Adam was in currently, he wasn’t up for fun or forgiveness.   
Ronan usually just dropped him off at the end of the drive, it was easier for everyone involved this way, especially late at night, but tonight he crawled down it, his engine a low thrum.   
“You can just drop me here,” Adam mumbled, pressing his cheek against the window.  
“Yeah I can,” Ronan replied, still driving.   
“You should just drop me here,” Adam tried again, peeling his skin away from the cold glass.   
“Yeah I should,” Ronan said, didn’t stop.   
“Ronan, for fucks sake, stop the car and let me out,” Adam hissed, hissed again as he undid his seatbelt, bruised muscles complaining viciously. Ronan stopped the car.   
“Pop the boot,” Adam commanded, “I need my bike.”   
“I can pick you up tomorrow-”  
“Pop the boot,” Adam repeated.  
“Christ, fine.”   
It was a lot easier getting the bike out of the boot than it had been putting it in this morning, his body had gotten used to the pain, and his fever had broken while he slept. He still felt lightheaded and nauseous, but that was easy enough to ignore.   
“Parrish,” Ronan said, sticking his head out his window as Adam tried to walk his bike past it.   
“Lynch,” Adam replied.   
“You mad at me, or just mad?”   
Adam stared at him for a long moment.   
“Both,” he said, “goodnight.” 

 

Adam wasn’t in school on Tuesday. He hadn’t been in on Monday either, and Ronan had told him not to worry about it, but now it was Tuesday and Adam still wasn’t here, and he hadn’t contacted him, and both Ronan and Noah were acting shifty.   
“Ronan,” he said, “Ronan,” he said again, flicked juice at him to further get his attention. Ronan growled, removed his headphones.   
“What?” he snapped.   
“Have you heard from Parrish?”   
“Should I have?”   
“You seemed to know what was going on yesterday. Is he ok?”   
Ronan was looking very suspicious, which was usual, and grumpy, which was also usual, upset as well, still usual, but also vaguely worried, which was less usual.   
“He’s just-” Ronan cut himself off to begin methodically shredding the edges of Gansey’s workbook. Gansey snatched the book away before Ronan could rip out any of the actual work.  
“His dad?” he suggested, Ronan nodded, Gansey cursed.   
“He’s fine,” Ronan said sourly, “well, God, like not fine, he looked like complete shit yesterday, like, he could barely walk-” he cut himself off again, looking angrier than usual, as if he hadn’t meant to say so much. Gansey kept his mouth shut in hope that Ronan would continue. “He was ok enough when I dropped him home last night. He’s probably not in today so no one can see his fucking bruises. You know how he is about that.”   
“Yeah,” Gansey said. He also felt like shredding his workbook.   
“Yeah,” Ronan repeated, paused a moment, then, “also he’s mad at me.”   
“When isn’t he?” Gansey snorted. Ronan replied with his middle finger and jammed his headphones back on. 

Adam skipped school on Wednesday as well. He’d spent all of Tuesday working, and most of Wednesday as well, finished the day off in his father’s garage. He used the small bracket of time while his mother was at the stores, and his father wasn’t home yet, to call Gansey on his home phone. Gansey’s phone barely had time to ring once before it was answered with a breathless, “Gansey speaking.”  
“Gansey,” Adam said, “did I interrupt something?” If he was talking to Ronan, or if he was Ronan, this is where he’d convey a leer through his tone.   
“Adam,” Gansey replied, “no, no sorry, I was at practice.”   
“So I am interrupting?” Adam tried.  
“Not at all. What do you need, Adam?”   
This was a good question, with far too many answers.   
“Nothing,” Adam said, “just - wanted to check if I missed anything important in class. I should be back tomorrow.”   
“Oh,” Adam could hear talking in the background, imagined Gansey was doing his ‘I’m on the phone and you’re being rude’ face, “no I don’t think so. Nothing that you need to have done by tomorrow.”  
“Good.”  
“Adam,”  
“Gansey.”  
A long pause. Adam could practically hear Gansey rubbing his finger against his lip, an exhale.   
“How are you?”   
“I’m fine,” Adam replied, automatic, “I’ll be back tomorrow.”  
“Adam,”  
“I’ll see you then. Go back to your practice, Gans,”   
“Adam,”  
Adam hung up. 

His bruises weren’t all down, in fact, most of them were still rather vivid, but he’d already missed enough school. On days like this, coming back to school after an absence due to swelling, he tended to leave Boyd’s a little early in the morning so he could drop by the pharmacy before school. It wasn’t like he was wearing makeup, he had no skill for that, but the ladies working there were always happy to help him find something close to his skin tone, and happy still to look the other way while he used the tester tube to cover whatever bruises were most prominent. It wouldn't fool anyone who looked at him closely, or for too long, but the majority of people at Aglionby didn’t. He did his best to not draw attention to himself, it was easier to get good grades if people weren’t getting in your face about it. It certainly wouldn’t fool Gansey if they sat together for very long.   
Apparently he didn’t even need to sit next to Gansey for the thin ruse to fall flat. Gansey, locking the door of the Pig while Ronan leaned against the opposite door, spotted him across the parking lot, waved him over enthusiastically. Adam considered for several moments, pretending he hadn’t seen them. He could very easily just keep biking past, lock his bike up, go to class. Instead, he climbed off the seat and stood with the bike while Ronan and Gansey walked over to him, and then they walked over to the bike rack together. Adam was careful not to look at them, keeping his gaze on his feet. He knew Ronan was doing the same. Gansey, however, he could feel staring at his face.   
“Adam,” he began, the same tone as he had on the phone yesterday.   
“No Noah today?” Adam interrupted brightly, fiddling with the lock on his bike chain. Gansey’s hands gripped the edges of his own sleeves, anxiously tugging them down over his hands.   
“Nah,” Ronan replied, “think he had something to do before class.”   
“Pity,” Adam said.  
“Adam,” Gansey said.  
“You missed a fuck load of Latin homework yesterday, Parrish,” Ronan said.  
“Damn,” Adam hissed, hefted his bag higher on his shoulder. As a group they turned away from the bike rack to start their walk to first class. “I don’t suppose either of you took notes?”   
“Don’t look at me,” Ronan grunted.   
“I have copies for you in my bag,” Gansey said, “Adam,”  
“Thanks Gans,” Adam said, “anything new with your dead king?”  
Gansey lets himself be distracted.   
Doesn’t try again.

 

On Sunday the window is shut.   
Ronan considers knocking on it, lightly, lightly. Considers hanging around a little longer to wait and see if maybe Adam will open it in a while, maybe it’s too early, maybe he forgot. Wonders if this means that tonight was another bad night for Robert. Another bad night for Adam. Doesn’t want to leave. Leaves. 

 

Adam is at school on Monday. He looks fine. Or as fine as you can get with week old bruises. Ronan allows himself a moment of relief before barrelling into his longer moment of irritation.   
“What the fuck was last night?” he demands, voice low as he drops heavily into the chair next to Adam. Adam looks confused.   
“What?” he asks, pulls out his books. It’s obvious he knows what. If he didn’t know what, he wouldn’t be looking so intently at his books, wouldn’t be avoiding looking at Ronan.   
“Window was closed,” Ronan said.  
“Oh,” Adam clicks his pen on, off, on, off, on, “yeah,” off.  
“Why?”   
Now Adam look up at him, only to lift his eyebrows in a perfect look of annoyance. “Do I need an excuse to want to sleep by myself, Lynch?”   
“Only on Sundays,” Ronan replied, overly truthful.   
“Maybe I wanted some… alone time,” Adam said. He’s back to looking at his books.  
“I think we need to expand the code,” Ronan says, gives up on this argument for now, “window closed, don’t come in, window ajar with a sock on the handle, wanking, wait two minutes, window open with no sock, whatever.” He smirks widely.  
“Fuck you,” Adam says, no heat, he’s looking at Ronan again, this time he’s grinning. “Two minutes isn’t going to cut it.”   
“Three and half.”  
“Piss off.” 

 

Declan corners him after school, before he can escape back to Monmouth. He’s saying something about grades, about appearances. Ronan tries to make his own points by flashing his teeth. Declan has his expression on. The one which says, ‘I’m not going to fight you, but I want you to know how disappointed I am in you. Think about Matthew.’ He looks like Niall when he wears that face. Ronan wants to punch him right in it. Ronan does not, Gansey has his hand on his shoulder. Declan is rolling his eyes, washing Niall away again.

 

The window is closed on Monday. The Window is closed on Tuesday. The window is closed on Wednesday. The window is closed on Thursday. 

 

On Friday, Ronan pushes his lunch over to Adam, who, as always, turns his nose up and then glares at Ronan.   
“You need to keep your strength up Parrish, you’re gonna wear yourself out if you keep this up,” he says, tone mocking.  
“I don’t want it,” Adam replies, sharp, “keep what up?”  
Now Ronan plasters a look of faux seriousness onto his face, “I mean - if you’re jerking off every night this week, and working from 5 in the morning until midnight-”  
Adam hits him on the arm. Ronan laughs. Ronan eats his lunch. Adam does not give an explanation. 

 

The window is closed on Friday. Ronan skips Saturday. Finds Kavinsky at the lights. The window is closed on Sunday. He parks outside St Agnes. Sleeps in his car. Wakes to wasp stings. He keeps his hands in his pockets around Gansey. How is he supposed to explain he woke up with a fistful of wasps?

 

Adam nudges his wrists, shoots his fingers a worried look. Ronan shrugs.   
“The hell happened?” Adam whispers. The teacher hears anyway, shoots a disapproving look their way. Ronan shoots one back. Adam ducks his head.   
“Got stung,” Ronan mumbles. Doesn’t miss Adam’s look of alarm, adds, “nowhere near Gans. Chill out.”  
“Where?”  
“Your window was shut last night,” Ronan replies, a not reply.  
He can’t tell if Adam is still flushing about being caught out by the teacher, or about this conversation topic. Either way, he makes no comment. Ronan persists.   
“It’s been shut every night this week.”  
“And?” Adam hisses back.  
“And nothing, apparently,” Ronan snaps, doesn’t bother keeping his voice down. This time the disapproving look is a disgruntled glare. Adam doesn’t say anything. Ronan doesn’t say anything. 

 

The window is shut Monday, so he detours back into town, buys a bottle of whiskey from someone who barely glances at his ID. Drinks too much of it, throws it back up. Doesn’t sleep. The window is shut on Tuesday. On Wednesday Ronan sleeps in the park, dreams about teeth, teeth, teeth. He wakes with marks like pin pricks, like bites on his shoulders. Wears a t-shirt. 

 

Thursday, Friday, Saturday the window is shut and Ronan keeps his eyes open until 2 am Sunday, then falls asleep in the parking lot at Monmouth, dreams of fists, fists, fists. Goes to church with a black eye, a scraped fist, can’t say the other guy looks worse, can’t say who the other guy is, can’t remember if the other guy was him or Declan, or Robert, or Adam. Not Adam, not Declan. 

 

Declan stands next to him throughout the service and glares and glares and glares and offers to give him another black eye. Matthew brushes his fingers against Ronan’s still bloody knuckles, asks who it was. Ronan says, ‘myself’, Declan says, ‘damn right it was’. Ronan says, ‘fuck off’, Declan says, ‘if mum could see you now’. Ronan says, ‘fuck off’, Declan says, ‘I would if I could’. Matthew says, ‘please, guys, please.’ Ronan shuts up. Declan shuts up. Matthew does not cry. 

 

Sunday the window is still shut and Ronan drives back to Monmouth. Can’t sleep, can’t sleep, gets into bed next to Gansey who can’t sleep either but is pretending he can. 

“Ronan?” he says, voice stiff with disuse, loose with curiosity.   
“Go to sleep,” Ronan snaps. Turns on his side to put his back to Gansey, shifts until he’s on the edge of the bed. He just needs the presence of someone else there, doesn’t need to touch. Gansey touches his back. “Ronan?” he says again, “You sleeping here?”   
“No,” Ronan says, it’s the truth.   
“What are you doing then?” Gansey asks.  
“Lying. Is that against the law?”  
“You’re allowed to sleep here, Ronan,” Gansey says, voice softer than Ronan wants it. He could so easily sleep here. It’s comfortable, and warm, whatever else it is to sleep at Adam’s, except it’s not safe for Gansey. He closes his eyes and thinks about his still tender fingers, about the dark bruising under his eye, purple and mottled from a fist that exploded into bees into wasps into a car jack into the thing that follows him around in his dreams. Claws and beaks and eyes and. He opens his eyes. Gansey’s hand is still on his back, grounding, safe, heavy. He rolls over, forcing Gansey to move his hand or be squished. Gansey chooses to be squished, blinks slowly at Ronan.   
“You ok?” he asks.   
“No,” Ronan says, it’s the truth.   
“You fighting with Adam?” Gansey asks.  
“No,” Ronan says, thinks it’s the truth. Doesn’t know what the truth is.   
“Fighting with Declan?” Gansey tries again.  
“Yes,” Ronan says, “but that’s not news.”   
“What’s going on?”  
“Can’t sleep,” Ronan says. Doesn’t know how to put it plainer than that.   
“Sleep here,” Gansey says, he means it, his hand is still squashed under Ronan’s weight, his other arm is reaching round to loop over Ronan’s waist, “sleep here.” 

He hadn’t dreamt up any horrors, any dangers, any bruises while sleeping at Adam’s. Maybe he wouldn’t dream anything dangerous up next to Gansey. It was a futile thought. He knows this. He was wound up when he started sleeping at Adam’s, tense, taut, angry, but his dreams weren’t as loud. Weren’t as quick. He’d caught them before they could be, slowed them down by grounding himself to someone else’s breathing, someone else’s warmth. 

He could feel his dreams in his pores now. Or maybe it was his anger in his pores. His grief. He didn’t know. Something. Rough and raw, and loud, loud, loud. If he closed his eyes here, let Gansey’s warmth, Gansey’s breath, even and slow, pull him into sleep he would certainly sleep. But he would also certainly dream. Dream loud. And rough, raw, raw, raw. Even if he only brought back one thing, the smallest thing, he could already say what it would be, who it would kill. 

“Nah,” he says, “I just wanna lie here for a while.”   
Gansey is quiet. His arm is heavy across Ronan.   
“Ok,” he says, “Do you wanna talk about it?”   
Ronan makes a noise which is somewhere between a sigh and a ‘fuck off’.   
They don’t talk about it. 

 

Monday. The window is shut. Ronan drives halfway to Singer Falls with Noah, then they drive back. Then they drive all the way to Singer Falls. Then Ronan sleeps at the foot of the driveway, Noah breathing loudly in the seat next to him. 

 

Tuesday Ronan is not at school, Ronan is not answering his phone, Ronan’s car is still gone, and Gansey can’t find Noah either. He bemoans all of this into his hands during lunch to an only half-worried looking Adam.  
“It’s fine, Gansey,” Adam says, doesn’t bother looking up from his textbook in his lap, pats Gansey’s shoulder, “if you haven’t heard from Declan yet it’s probably nothing to worry about.”   
“They could be doing anything, Adam,” Gansey all but wails. He feels dramatic this morning. Can’t get Sunday night out of his head. Can’t work out how to make Ronan talk to him more. Can’t work out how to fix things. He just wants to help. He’s so good at helping. He wants to, but no one wants to let him.  
“And they’re most likely doing skids in some abandoned lot,” Adam replies, tone even and reasonable. He finally looks up to fix Gansey with a stern look, “Ronan’s not your problem,” he says, “he can look after himself. And if he can’t, that’s what Declan’s for.”   
“Adam,” Gansey sighs, “I’m not so worried that he can’t look after himself, it’s that I don’t think he will.”  
Adam closed his textbook, puts it back in his bag, leans his elbow on the table.   
“You’re stressing yourself out, man, you’re gonna go grey before any of us.”   
Gansey has been worrying about this, half heartedly, for quite a few years now. Even before Ronan. He runs his hand through his hair. Adam pats it back down for him before the disarray can stick.   
“Noah’s with him,” Adam says, “they’re both idiots, and they’re both great at getting into shit, but they’re not going to do anything awful. Not together. They’ll be fine.”  
“I just wish Ronan would answer his phone. What’s the point in having one if you never use it?”   
Adam shrugs. Gansey sighs. Adam sighs. Gansey shrugs.   
“He’s not been staying over with you, lately, has he?” Gansey asks.   
Adam takes a small bite of his sandwich. Cheese and ham, without the ham, and light on the cheese.   
“Nah,” he says.   
“Are you guys fighting?” Gansey asks, tries not to sound tentative.   
“I don’t think so,” Adam says, “wouldn’t surprise me if we were, though.”   
It’s not a useful answer.   
“He says you’re not,” Gansey says, thoughtful. Adam shoots him a look.  
“If he says we’re not, why did you ask me?”   
“I wasn’t sure if it was the truth.”  
“Ronan never lies,” Adam says, only half sarcastic. Gansey laughs.   
“Did you tell him to stop coming round?” he asks, doesn’t want to let this go. Not yet. He will once Adam starts balking.  
“No,” Adam says, shoulders tense.   
“He’s not sleeping,” Gansey offers.  
“Oh,” Adam says, “that’s not new,”  
“Did he not sleep at yours?” Gansey asks.  
“No,” Adam frowns, “I mean, no, he did sleep. He even snored a little. Drooled a lot.”   
“Oh,” Gansey says. 

Ronan and Noah are back at Monmouth when Gansey gets home.

 

Tuesday, he races Kavinsky halfway across town, chugs half a pack of beer, drowns himself in the rest. Wednesday Gansey sits by his bed, ignores Ronan’s grunted commands to get out, tells him that he worried when Ronan was gone like that. When he knows Ronan’s not at Adam’s. Ronan tells him he’s fine, obviously. Gansey points out that he’s still drunk. That he has a ‘k’ in marker on his forehead, that the palms of his hands still have gravel in them. He stays in his bed on Wednesday, keeps his eyes open through the night. Thursday the window is shut. Ronan can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Can’t sleep. Everything is prickly and chafing and he can’t shut his brain up while his eyes are open, can’t shut it down when his eyes are closed. He sits on the edge of Noah’s bed, lets Noah rub his neck, hands cold and calming against his sweat stinging skin. Still can’t sleep. Not in Monmouth, not when the prick of his skin could become a prick in Gansey’s. 

 

Friday night the window is open.   
He knocks anyway. Light, careful, quiet. The small torch goes on in the dark of Adam’s room. Then the shadow of Adam moves across to window and pushes it open further.   
“Hey,” he says, voice not low.   
“Hey,” Ronan replies, a whisper.  
“My parents are away,” Adam says, “visiting family.”  
“Oh,” Ronan breathes, can’t break the habit of quietness.   
“You wanna come in?” He’s not sure if Adam sounds awkward or if that’s just him.   
“Yeah,” he says.  
Adam shifts away, gets back into his bed and Ronan climbs in through the window. He half expects the room to look different, to feel different. It looks the same. Feels more dangerous though, not being able to hear Robert Parrish asleep, even when he knows he’s not even here.   
“I don’t have work in the morning,” Adam yawns, “so you can even sleep in if you want.”   
“Oh,” Ronan says again, crouches to undo his shoes, kicks them across the room when he stands back up. He keeps his jeans on, but shucks his jacket, drops himself onto the free edge of Adam’s bed.   
“Ugh,” Adam grumbles, “your fucking jeans are freezing.”  
“Mm,” Ronan replies, presses his legs against Adam’s.   
“Jerk,” Adam says.  
“Mm.”   
“You sleeping?”  
“Nah.”  
“You wanna chat or something?” Adam asks.  
“Nah.”   
“Right,” Adam says, closes his eyes, rolls away from Ronan, then rolls back, presses his forehead against the bone of Ronan’s shoulder.   
Ronan considers saying - hey, if I go to sleep right now, I’m going to dream something awful. Something awful for me, or for you, or for both of us, and I think I might bring it back out with me by mistake. Stay awake and keep me awake?  
Ronan considers saying - why have you been keeping the window shut? Why don’t you know I can’t sleep at Monmouth right now? Why are you so afraid?  
Ronan considers saying - is it because you don’t want me to get hurt if your father found me here or is it because you don’t want to get hurt? Or is it both? Is that why you shut me out?  
Ronan considers saying - how much of this is pride, and how much of this is shame? For me it’s like 89% shame.   
Ronan does not say any of this. He stares at the ceiling, too close to the floor, bites his lip until sleep doesn’t feel so inviting. If he can hurt right here, what’s the point of sleeping? Thinks that this is a bad idea. He can’t sleep here tonight. He can’t. It’s not Adam’s fault. He would like it to be Adam’s fault. His brain is too loud. He stays awake until light is staining the short ceiling. Adam’s the one drooling on him this time, if he were less exhausted he’d find it funny. He shifts in increments until he’s freed himself from the weight of Adam’s head on his shoulder, pulls himself out of the bed. No one else is home, so he lets himself out the front door, drives back to Monmouth.   
Needs to sleep.

 

Doesn’t sleep on Saturday. Goes racing with Kavinsky instead.

 

Sunday Declan tells him he ought to go to confession. He’s looking at the bags under his eyes, the stubble on his chin that does nothing to hide the bruise Kavinsky gifted him the previous night. Ronan wonders if that would help. If he confessed all his demons, would they no longer be in his dreams? Doesn’t think he can confess them all, doesn’t think the priest knows the antidote to this. Doesn’t think it will do any good really, he’s been asking and asking and asking God and he’s still dying, dying, dying. Tells Declan to fuck off. 

He stays in his room on Sunday. Locks the door. Doesn’t trust the door lock. Jams clothes under the crack between door and floor until he’s confident nothing could get through. Tries to sleep. Dreams about something thick as honey and hot as a mouth. Pouring down his forehead, getting caught in his regrown curls, trickling down between his eyebrows, down into the shadows beneath his eyes, down into his mouth where it stings and burns and burns and burns of blood. He opens his eyes but he’s not awake, he’s watching himself stand above him, car jack in hand, watches himself swing it towards him, feels the thick honey blood ooze down his face. Feels his mouth move, his father’s voice come out, he’s saying ‘knife, poison, betrayed’. It sounds like ‘Ronan, Ronan, Ronan.’ He can see it from the corner of his eyes, through the blood, through the burn, he can see the feathers, the beaks, the biting.   
Wakes up to blood, blood, blood. Checks his forehead first, but it’s not there, sticky from sweat not blood. Crimson is soaking his sheets, his shirt, he’s pulling it off, fingers frantic as they press into the shallow grooves over his ribs, the gouges in the flesh of his stomach. Sweat stinging in them even as blood leaks out. No bees. No monsters. Just blood and holes. And something sweet and harsh as metal in his mouth, between his teeth, under his tongue. 

He makes it to the bathroom before he throws up, which is a bonus. The fact that Gansey is in the shower while he’s throwing up however, is not.   
“Ro- fuck -” Gansey begins, then, as Ronan drops to his knees in front of the toilet, “what the fuck, Ronan? You ok?”  
Ronan gags, retches, throws up, presses his cheek to the rim of the toilet and tries not to think about when they last cleaned in here.   
“Peachy,” he rasps.   
Now his mouth tastes like bile and salt as well as honey and blood. He thinks about when the toilet was last cleaned. He throws up again. Gansey turns the shower off, steps hastily out, grabbing his towel bathrobe as he goes to crouch down beside Ronan.   
“You - God, Ronan, is this blood?”   
“Fuck does it look like?” Ronan mumbles, spits into the bowl. It’s mostly blood in there too. He doesn’t remember what he ate earlier, if he ate earlier, thinks he must have swallowed a lot of his dream blood for it to be so viscous in the toilet water. Gansey is making a series of horrified noises, first just at the blood on Ronan, then at the blood Ronan had vomited, then at the blood on Ronan again.   
“-what happened? Oh God, should I call the police? And ambulance? Declan? I’m calling an ambulance,” Gansey is saying, but he’s still crouched by Ronan, dripping water on him, clutching him by the arm with one hand, feeling out the wounds on Ronan’s stomach with the other.   
“Gansey,” Ronan grunts, his cheek still pressed against porcelain   
“How did this happen? I didn’t even know you went out, was this Kavinsky?”  
“Gansey,”   
“How deep are these? What-”  
“Gansey. Don’t call anyone. It’s fine,” Ronan huffed out. With effort, he pushed himself away from the toilet, wincing at the pull of porcelain on damp skin. “I’m fine - It’s just - I just - nightmare,” he starts, winces again. This time at the inadequacy of the explanation. “I freaked out,” he tries, “must’ve cut myself. They’re not deep. It’s fine.”   
Gansey won’t let go of him, if anything, he looks more panicked now that Ronan’s tried to explain. This is the moment in which Noah choses to appear, somehow far more collected than Gansey.   
“Why-” he begins, then, “is there a reason the both of you are half dressed and covered in blood? Is this new flat bonding? Why wasn’t I invited?”   
Gansey sounds like a dying flamingo.   
Ronan takes this moment to stand up, flush the toilet, and to yank Gansey off of the floor.   
“Was an accident,” Ronan says, shuffling towards the door and Noah, holding Gansey firmly by damp shoulders and pushing him in front.   
“The half naked was an accident?” Noah asks, putting his hands out to receive Gansey, “Or the blood and gore?”   
“Both.”   
“Ronan,” Gansey tries again, turns to face him, “how the fuck was this an accident?”   
Ronan shrugs, pushes the door shut on the both of his flatmates, locks the door.   
He pauses a moment to take in the wet and bloody floor in front of him, then walks over to the still steaming shower, and gets in. 

 

Monday he doesn’t go to school. Locks his bedroom door. Tells Gansey to fuck off. Tells Noah to fuck off. Lies on his back to avoid pulling at the injuries on his front.  
Gansey brings Adam back with them after school. He tells Adam to fuck off as well. Then he has to remind Gansey and Noah to fuck off again.   
He doesn’t sleep. 

 

He goes to school on Tuesday. He doesn’t talk about it on Tuesday. He doesn’t sleep on Tuesday. 

 

On Wednesday Adam sits in class behind him, touches his shoulder, says, “My window’s open, if you want.”   
He wants.  
On Wednesday he sleeps in his car in the Monmouth parking lot. Drinks the rest of his whiskey. Doesn’t throw it up. Dreams he’s driving his car through the empty streets of his mind, until it’s not a car anymore it’s a many winged raven, except it’s not a raven, it’s a man with wings and beaks and claws, except it’s not, it’s the BMW again, charcoal except where it’s blood red. On Thursday he wakes up to blood all over the backseat. Not his blood. 

 

Thursday Gansey tries to talk to him at breakfast time, in class, in between class, at lunch, after lunch, at home. Thursday Declan comes to Monmouth after classes, stands outside Ronan’s door and talks, quietly at first, then louder. Gansey sends him away when the yelling starts. Ronan doesn’t talk. Noah talks to him through his door. Ronan doesn’t talk. Gansey sits on the floor outside and apologises for Declan. Ronan doesn’t talk. Thursday he does not sleep because his mind is buzzing, and it’s either buzzing with bees or with something angrier, something with more eyes. 

 

Friday he doesn’t go to class. Friday he goes back to the liquor store with the negligent workers, buys another bottle of whiskey, the most expensive, his father’s favourite. Friday, he sits in his room on his bed, drinks straight from the bottle until the burn has numbed his throat, until Noah has appeared beside him, kneeling on the floor, pulling the bottle from his hand. Friday he throws it all up again, drinks all the water Noah forces on him, lies on the floor by his bed while Noah strokes his forehead, cold, cold, cold hands. Friday, he says to Noah, “I’m sick of this”. Noah strokes his forehead, cold, cold, cold, says, “give it more time.”   
He doesn’t have more time. Not for this. Doesn’t want more time. Not for this. Says this to Noah too.   
Noah says, “You wouldn’t be the only would who would regret it.”  
Ronan doesn’t cry. He’s too drunk, too numb for crying. He tells this to Noah as well. Noah wipes the tears from Ronan’s jaw, agrees with him.   
Friday, Gansey comes home and Ronan is lying in bed, eyes open, headphones on, Noah propped up against the headboard.   
“You didn’t come to school today,” Gansey says, Noah pulls the headphones off Ronan and Gansey repeats his statement.   
“Thank you captain obvious,” Ronan mumbles, can’t work up the bite the words should have. His tongue is still too numb.   
Gansey ignores this. “What were you doing?” he asks, “The whole factory smells like alcohol, what if Adam had come round?”   
Noah puts his hand back to Ronan’s face, cools him down, Ronan closes his eyes. Doesn’t need them open to know what look Noah is giving Gansey, what look Gansey is returning to Noah.   
“I thought you weren’t going to drink so much anymore?” Gansey says, ignores Noah’s look. “I thought you were past that?”  
Ronan opens just one eye, squints.   
“Ronan,” Gansey says, finally enters the room, sits on the bed by Noah’s feet, by Ronan’s hip. “I’m worried about you. Please,” he says, “please talk to me. Or anyone. What’s going on?”   
Ronan shuts his eye again. Now Gansey’s hand is on his face as well, one side of his face freezing, the other too hot.   
“Is it Kavinsky?” Gansey asks, voice low, brittle like it always is when he brings Kavinsky up.   
Ronan snorts. Noah shakes his head.   
“Please,” Gansey says.   
“I don’t know what to tell you, dick,” Ronan bites out, his throat is like sandpaper, either he lets it out harsh or it won’t come at all, “it’s nothing. It’s everything. It’s fine.”   
“This isn’t fine,” Gansey says. His voice is hard, his hand is soft.   
“It will be,” Ronan says, “it will be.” He knows it isn’t enough. “I can’t, right now,” he says, “I just can’t.”   
“Can’t what?” Gansey prompts, asks, whispers.   
Noah’s hand is so cold.   
“Be,” Ronan replies, “it’s too much.”  
Noah’s hand is so cold.  
“What do you mean?” Gansey asks, knows what he means.   
“I’ll be later,” Ronan says, “just not now.” He knows it isn’t enough. Doesn’t have anything else to offer. 

Friday and he doesn’t want dinner. Doesn’t eat dinner. Ignores Gansey’s expression. Listens to instrumental music.   
Friday and he can’t sleep. Won’t sleep. Not here. 

Friday and he’s getting out of bed, pulling his jacket on, pulling his trousers on, pulling his shoes on.

Friday and he’s still too tipsy to drive, doesn’t want to risk his father’s car, walks instead. 

Friday and he falls asleep outside, exhaustion heavier than fear. 

Friday and he falls asleep.

Friday and he falls. 

Friday and he’s too tired to run through dreams like mud, too tired to fight, too tired to care, too tired to want. 

Saturday and Noah wakes Gansey up. 

 

 

The Parrish landline is installed on the wall between the living area and Adam’s bedroom, which means, that if Adam is in his room when it rings, he will absolutely hear it. He will almost always hear it first. He will not always be the only one who hears it. 

Saturday, and he picks it up in the silence between the first and the second ring. He’d been getting a glass of water, moving as quietly as possible, had almost dropped it when the phone rang. Holds his breath as Gansey spills out that Ronan is missing. That he’s really, truly worried this time. That something has gone awfully wrong. Promises he’ll try and come. Hangs up the phone.   
Saturday and his father is standing in his bedroom doorway, unimpressed and tired.   
“Don’t your friends know it’s impolite to ring so late?” he asks. This sort of anger, sarcastic and furious, always makes his voice crisp. Not devoid of accent by any means, but harder.   
“I’m sorry, sir,” Adam says, does not mumble it, “I’m so sorry, he didn’t mean to wake you, I didn’t mean to wake you-” risks a glance at his father’s stormcloud face, “but there’s an emergency, I really - could I please go and-”   
The first blow is like a thunderclap. 

It’s Saturday and Adam doesn’t make it out of the house. Doesn’t make it past his father. Does not pass Go. 

It’s Saturday and Noah can’t. Just can’t. Can’t stay. Is physically unable to stay. Mentally unable to stay. Goes. 

It’s Saturday and it’s just Gansey in the ambulance beside Ronan, but he can’t be beside Ronan because the emergency team have to be beside Ronan. It’s just Gansey sitting opposite Ronan in the ambulance, just Gansey. Not Richard Gansey the third, just Gansey with his face wet with tears and Ronan’s blood. Calls Declan. 

It’s Saturday and Declan swears over the phone at Gansey, not for the first time. Gets out of bed on shaking legs and crosses the floor to Matthew. Doesn’t want to look. Has to look. Presses his hand to Matthew’s shoulder, crouches beside him, whispers his name.   
“Mm?” Matthew replies, about as legible as he gets at this point. Legible enough.   
“Go back to sleep,” Declan tells him, “I have to go. I’ll call you soon, answer it.”   
Then he goes. 

 

Saturday and Gansey sees Declan cry for the first time. Not loud or dramatic, of course, he sits there silently. Folded into a waiting chair beside Gansey, tears silent on his cheeks. There’s no point in pretending either of them aren’t crying. The first few hours of the day stretch, stretch, stretch. Every time a doctor walks into the room, Declan startles, every time they walk out without talking to him, he dials Matthew’s phone number. Gansey supposes it’s a coping technique. For Declan, who can’t protect Ronan at this moment, who has never been able to get Ronan to let him protect him, to be able to have Matthew so safe, so close. For Matthew maybe, to be as much in the loop as possible.   
It’s not much of a conversation, these phone calls. Declan dials. Matthew picks up, mumbles, Declan replies, voice hushed, possibly not in English. Gansey isn’t listening hard enough to tell. Matthew mumbles back, Declan hangs up. 

Saturday and Ronan is still alive. Is alright. Will be alright. Is stitched whole again, or as whole as is possible. 

The doctors talk to Declan. Gansey is listening hard enough now. They say things like, ‘suicide watch’, they say things like, ‘almost sliced his tendons,’ they say things like, ‘-like claw marks’, they say things like, ‘he’s very lucky’. Gansey snorts at that. Declan snorts at that.   
They don’t talk to each other when they sit back down, beside Ronan. 

Declan calls Matthew.  
Gansey doesn’t know who to call. He doesn’t want to worry his parents, doesn’t want to worry Helen either. Thinks Noah’s phone is broken. Knows Adam must have been caught, can’t risk calling him. Wants desperately to call Ronan, to have Ronan answer the phone for once in his damned life, for Ronan not to be laid out on the bed in front of him, hooked up to things that beep and hiss and pump life into him because he didn’t want it. 

He thinks that now that Ronan is definitely alive, definitely going to live, is safe, he should be able to stop crying.   
Declan doesn’t say anything after he hangs up on Matthew. Just shifts slightly in his chair, wraps his arm around Gansey’s shoulders and tugs him forwards until his face is pressed against the front of Declan’s jacket. He wishes Ronan could put aside his anger, that Declan could put aside his anger, that Declan could be as soft with Ronan as he is with Matthew and vice versa. Wishes that he didn’t have to find out that Declan is capable of kindness and softness to people that aren’t blonde females or Matthew. Doesn’t truly begrudge the fact that he’s receiving the affection. He needs it right now.

Saturday and Ronan wakes up.   
Ronan wakes up.   
Remembers how to breathe for himself. Remembers how much he enjoys breathing for himself. Remembers how he only likes pain because it reminds him that he is alive, alive, alive. If you’re gonna die it might as well be painless.

He’s not sure what hurts more when he opens his eyes. His arms or Gansey’s face, or, even, Declan’s face.   
He closes his eyes. Thanks God that Matthew isn’t here to see this.   
Reaches for Gansey’s hand. Has nothing else to say, except, “It wasn’t like that, Gans,” his voice is wrecked, he doesn’t sound like Ronan, “I swear,” he rasps.


End file.
